Shadows That In Darkness Dwell
by The Artful Scribbler
Summary: Eva Bowen is a young pure-blood witch who works in the Ministry library. She's so mousy and quiet, no one ever notices her – or her activities as a double-agent, working against blood-status prejudice. But someone is on her trail, and he's not happy to have been made a fool of… (M; Precursor to the Scabior/Hermione encounter. Trigger warning. Strong language and adult themes.)
1. Mouse and Hawk

_**Hi everyone, just a quick A/N... **Firstly to say thanks for reading! Secondly, a brief warning that this fic contains language and themes intended for adult-only readership, so if you're not over 18 then please go no farther. Lastly, a disclaimer that the concept and content have been borrowed from JK Rowling, and I own no rights, intend no infringement, and make no money from it._

_A brief note on the text: As this story is centred around Scabior, who is portrayed in the films as an East-End London Wide-boy, I have accordingly used the Cockney vernacular which tends to omit "h" at the start of words and plays fast and loose with grammar. I've also included the occasional instance of Cockney Rhyming Slang (if you don't know what that is I encourage you to look it up, it is brilliant, and there are thousands of entertaining examples.) Here is a quick translation of the ones I have used: Weasel and Stoat = Coat. North and South (Norf and Souf) = Mouth. Tea-leaf = Thief. Boat-race = Face. It may be a little confusing to some, but you'll get the hang of it._

_**Please feel free to review or concrit. If you want to review chapter by chapter, all the better, I find it very helpful to know which chapters resonate, and I will always reply in a PM to registered reviewers. Hope you enjoy! ...But perhaps enjoy is not quite the right word...**_

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**SHADOWS THAT IN DARKNESS DWELL**

_Bang_!

Eva jumped as the library door slammed open. But it was only that arrogant Snatcher, Scabior. She wondered what he was doing here so late at night – obviously he was looking for someone, but Eva felt pretty safe in the knowledge it would not be her. He had never so much as acknowledged her presence, though she saw him often enough in the Ministry, making his reports or bringing in his catches. Eva Bowen, the "mousy little librarian" knew she was practically invisible to men like him.

She ducked her head back into the large book she had been perusing. Hopefully the Snatcher would realise she was the only one in the library and then leave.

But he did not leave. "Well, well, well," he growled softly, his voice thick with the rough accent peculiar to London's East-End. "It's always the quiet ones you gotta watch."

A thrill of fear shot through Eva's body. She looked up, half-expecting him to be speaking to someone else – but no: his inky-fringed blue eyes bored straight down into her own. "I – I'm sorry, were you speaking to me?" she stammered.

"I was indeed, darling." With a booted foot he nudged the door behind him, so it swung shut with an ominous click. He took a step forward, and Eva felt herself shrinking back. His forbidding presence seemed to take up the whole room.

"The library is closed for the evening," Eva said, trying to summon her most authoritative 'librarian' voice. "I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow if you want anything issued." Her words sounded hollow and unconvincing in the silence of the empty room.

Scabior smiled, but it was no kind expression, and it did not reach his glinting eyes. "I think I'll just stay 'ere for now, if it's all the same to you, miss." The _miss_ was emphasised insultingly, and Eva felt a wave of repulsion for the man's arrogance – insolence, even.

She shelved her book and faced the dark figure looming in the doorway. "We're closed," she repeated, with more force. "Everyone has gone home."

"All the more reason to stay," Scabior replied, with a mocking half-bow.

Eva swallowed; her throat felt dry. "What do you want?"

"I've come for a little chat with you," he replied, his smile hardening into a sneer. "You see, I've been watching you, my darling. And unless I am much mistaken, it looks like you 'ave been a very – bad – little – girl."

Eva's heart pounded wildly – but it wasn't with fear alone: also a surging kind of relief. She had been worrying, _waiting_ for this moment to come for so long! And now that it was here, she felt the fight flood into her spirit. She clenched her fists and rounded on him. "Oh, you've _finally_ managed to work it all out, have you?" she spat scornfully. "Took you long enough – idiot!"

For a moment, the Snatcher looked dumbfounded. _It was worth it just for that_, thought Eva triumphantly. Then his face spread over with a dusky flush of rage.

For a moment Eva wondered if he was going to curse her, and she gripped her wand tightly, ready. But then, visibly, Scabior forced his temper under control. "Oh, I wouldn't go calling names, girly," he said. "I might get upset." He took another step forward. "And trust me: you don't want to see me when I'm upset."

Eva was shaking, but her fear was not abject: she saw that he had been somewhat thrown by her impudence. She spoke derisively: "I'm sure you can't look much more stupid than you do right now."

But he didn't rise to the bait. "Is that right?" he replied coolly. "Well, we'll just 'ave to see who comes out – ah – _on top, _after I've finished questioning you."

Eva gave her most frosty stare, though her pulse raced. "You have no right to –"

"Oh, I think I've got every right," Scabior cut in roughly. "A pure-blood witch, turned filthy little blood-traitor? – Destroying evidence, falsifying papers, 'elping out the mudbloods, causing my boys and me no end of trouble? – Yeah, I think I can do whatever I want with you."

Eva felt a rising sense of panic, but still she wouldn't let it get the better of her. Calmly she replied, "Either arrest me, or leave me alone."

The candlelight caught Scabior's eyes, making them gleam iridescently. His lips curved into another smile, and at that moment Eva felt like a mouse cornered by a hawk. "Give me your wand, darling." He held out his hand, as if expecting her to come up to him and willingly relinquish it – the one thing that stood between her and who-knew-what peril.

Wordlessly she shook her head, gripping it tighter.

Scabior tutted mockingly. "You really are a disobedient thing, ain't you? Behind those thick glasses and that ugly robe is a very naughty little girly. Quite… re-cal-ci-trant."

Something about his drawling, menacing voice made her suddenly snap. Desperately she raised her wand, pointed it towards the man, and cried, "Expelliarmus!" – But he was quicker than she. "Impedimenta!" There was a blinding flash of light and a pain like a physical blow, knocking her backwards into the bookcase. As she fell to the floor she heard him command, "Accio Wand," – and helplessly she watched her wand careering through the air and into the waiting hand of the Snatcher.

He laughed, and waved it jeeringly at her, then tucked it inside his brass-studded waistcoat. "You might be too smart for own good, my girl, but I'm afraid you ain't fast enough for it."

Eva felt numb. Her confidence was shattered with the loss of her wand, and for the first time she felt hot tears welling up. But she swallowed them back and forced herself to stay in control of her emotions. "Alright," she said, unsteadily sitting up, her head reeling from where it had struck against the book case. "You have my wand, so arrest me. And while we're at it, I demand to see an attorney."

"I don't think so, my darling," Scabior said, in a cheerful tone, laced with treachery. "I said I wanted to question you, didn't I?"

"You do not have the jurisdiction," Eva said, unable to repress a quiver in her voice. She climbed shakily to her feet. "You're nothing but a mercenary, vile, repulsive, bounty-hunting thug."

Scabior laughed. "Don't 'old back now, will you, darling," he said, shaking his head almost admiringly at her futile audacity. He looked at her with a new expression, as if seeing her for the first time. "You know, you ain't bad-looking," he said. "Once you get rid of them things –" with a flick of his wand her glasses flew off her face and into his hand. He held them up to the light, inspecting the lenses. Eva knew what he would find. "Thought as much," he said at length. "Just a part of our pretty little traitor's disguise."

"It worked, didn't it?" Eva said nonchalantly. "Men like you are so predictable."

He raised an eyebrow. "Men like me, eh? Now, what can you mean by that, my girl?"

"Yes – men like you: arrogant, vain, narcissistic. You just love having ditzy women fawning all over you – and the rest of us don't even exist. It was so easy to get past you: I might as well have been wearing an Invisibility Cloak." She grimaced sarcastically. "Like I said, you're so predictable."

Scabior's expression was impassive, his eyes unreadable. Only a tightening of his jaw betrayed his real annoyance at her words. But he merely shrugged. "I like a good-looking bird as much as the next red-blooded man: that I do not deny... But 'ow did I miss you, I wonder?" With another flick of his wand her tightly-bound hair tumbled about her shoulders, and her heavy robes fell to the floor in a pile behind her. He leaned back as if appraising his handiwork. "Very nice," he murmured. "Very nice, indeed."

Even though she was wearing jeans and a woollen jumper, Eva felt vulnerable and exposed beneath Scabior's intrusive gaze, and she crossed her arms defensively. With the loss of her wand, she was just one slightly-built female against this burly, ruthless bully. "What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice almost desolate now.

Scabior rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I don't exactly know, darling," he replied. "… Revenge, per'aps?"

Eva paled. "I – I've never injured you personally –"

"Oh yeah?" Scabior cut in, and now his voice was hard-edged, aggrieved, dangerous. "You've led me and my boys on a right merry dance, 'aven't you? You've taken the fucking mickey, right under my nose, and made me look like a fucking eejit, 'aven't you?" She could see a vein throbbing in his temple, and her heart sank as it dawned on her just how enraged he really was.

"I was only trying to help my friends," she said pleadingly, trying to reason with him: anything to make him calm down. "Please, let me just explain –"

He thudded his fist against the wall, silencing her. "I think it's time the little turncoat stopped explaining, and started paying, don't you?"

He advanced slowly, deliberately, his gaze fixed on her large, frightened eyes.

Eva froze, but only for a moment. Then, overtaken by a wave of anger, rebellion, disgust, and fear, she cried out, "You're a coward, Scabior! – Picking on a wandless female! Why don't you just go and drown some kittens – that'll give you another thing to be proud of!"

The insult backfired. Scabior's eyes blazed and his face went livid with fury. She recoiled at the intensity of it, and all her instincts warned her to flee. Desperately she grabbed a heavy book from the shelf and flung it as hard as she could at the man, then blindly turned and ran.


	2. Catch

She screamed as he grabbed her from behind, slamming her bodily against the wall. "Where d'ya think you're going, beautiful?" he snarled in her ear. "Don't you like playing rough?" He caught a fistful of her hair and jerked her head backwards, making her cry out in pain.

"No – no, please –" Eva stammered, but he only gripped her hair more tightly, and muttered, "Oh, yeah, I think you would just _love_ it rough." He pulled her around to face him, shoving himself forcefully against her, pinning her against the wall. Eva struggled: tried to bring her knee up, but he was pressed too nearly against her – and then somehow she managed to lift her foot and land a hard kick on his shin.

Scabior swore, and for a moment his grip loosened. Eva twisted away from him – but he was too quick, too strong. He shoved her back against the wall and pressed his wand to her cheek threateningly. "Try that again, ya little bitch, and I'll give you something to really howl about."

She flinched and closed her eyes, wondering what was to follow, and was surprised to feel his grip on her relax. When she finally dared to look up she was confused to see Scabior regarding her with an amused smile. His thoughts seemed to have taken a new turn.

"I think what we got here is a little... what's the expression?... a little _Virgo Intacta._" His voice was suddenly light, playful. "As yet untouched." He raised his brows expectantly, as if waiting for her response. "Well...ain't ya?"

Eva flushed with confusion and mortification. "W-what do you mean?"

"Oh, 'ave to spell it out, do I?" His smile widened wolfishly. "I mean, you've never been fucked by a fella before, 'ave ya?"

"How – how dare you –"

"Don't deny it – I can tell: you're practically begging for it." He licked his lips almost hungrily. "But I've never forced a girl, you know. Never 'ad to. I've always managed to – ah, _persuade_ my birds, one way or another."

Recovering somewhat from her shock, Eva felt a surge of defiance. "Bravo," she shot back sarcastically. "You could almost pass for a gentleman."

Scabior laughed. "You're lucky that I 'appen to like you, girl," he said. "You're a feisty one, if a _gentleman_ may say so. Not my usual type." He paused, then grinned. "Want to know my usual type?"

"Astonish me," Eva said drily.

"I like 'em tall and blonde, big tits and no brains," he said. "That's the perfect woman for me. Now, tell me you don't agree."

"On the contrary, Scabior – I _counted_ on it."

A flash of annoyance passed his features. "Yeah, well, _you_ certainly don't answer to that description, do ya, darling?" His eyes trailed leisurely over her slim, rather boyish, figure. "You're not exactly glamour-model material, are you?"

Eva coloured. "Fortunate for me I'm not pursuing a career as a glamour-model, then."

"Agreed," he murmured. "But still, there's something about you…" His gaze rested on her mouth. "Something that makes me want to just –"

"It's called having a power trip, Scabior," Eva cut in flippantly. "It's very common in brainless thugs with an over-developed sense of entitlement."

Once again, a twitch of his jaw muscle betrayed his annoyance. "Careful, my darling. Too much of your lip and it's liable to get itself split."

The warning glint in his eyes made Eva bite back a retort. Instead she looked away and muttered, "Just tell me what you want, or leave me alone."

"Oh no, I'm not leaving you alone," replied the Snatcher softly. "I'm just getting started with you. You see, my darling, I've got a par-tic-u-lar use for you, other than the obvious one."

Eva shook her head defiantly. "I'm not telling you anything. I – I don't know anything."

"_Is_ that a fact?" Scabior returned, with mock credulity. "Well, we'll just 'ave to see if that claim bears some _very_ close inspecting."

"You can't – do – anything to me, that will – will make me tell you anything," she stuttered, her face burning.

Scabior laughed at her confusion. He closed in on her again, slowly pressing her up against the wall, one hand resting beside her head, the other wielding his wand to tilt her chin up towards him. "Now _that_ sounds like an invitation to try," he said, smiling down at her. Eva's senses were filled with a heavy masculine scent – leather, tobacco, and strong spirits – and it made her feel suddenly unsteady and ill.

"No, I really mean it," she said with fervour. "I – I would rather die!"

"Don't get all hysterical, darling," Scabior said. "Grand gestures ain't going to get you out of trouble, I'm sorry to tell ya..." He leaned in and murmured in her ear: "'Cos I've got _something _of yours, that you're gonna want back."

A heavy, churning dread pervaded her. "W-what do you mean?" she said falteringly. "What sort of thing?"

He straightened up and tucked his wand into its holster, patting it with a facetious air of careless self-assurance. "What _do_ I mean?" he said, his voice gibingly pleasant. "Let me see… well, it's about four foot tall, red hair, last name Bowen. Ring any bells?"

Eva started, her eyes flew wide, and her face drained of colour. "What have you done to Arielle?" she gasped. She couldn't breathe – she felt as if he had punched her in the stomach, knocked the breath from her. Then her chest heaved with a shuddering cry, and she was pounding him with her fists, screaming, "What have you done to _my little sister_?!"

Scabior grasped her wrists and pulled her arms down to her sides. "That got your attention, now, didn't it darling? Oh, yes, we struck a chord there, I think."

She burst into tears, and he watched her closely as she sobbed uncontrollably, as if fascinated by her sudden torment. He brought his hands up and wiped away her tears in a strangely gentle gesture. "Alright, alright, darling. – I don't need the waterworks from you. All I want is a few names. Just the names of a few of your associates, and she'll be returned to you in exactly the same condition as what she arrived in. I promise."

Eva shook her head. "Not until I see her," she choked out, "not until I know she's safe."

Scabior seemed to consider this. "You're not really in a position to negotiate, sweet-'eart," he murmured, but his tone was somewhat softened.

She sensed him relenting, and looked up into his eyes, her own ones huge and imploring. "Please," she said, "I just want to see her – _please_, Scabior."

Scabior leaned in again, so close that she felt his breath on her cheek. "I don't do favours free of charge, beautiful," he said. "I'd expect something in return – something you 'aven't given to anyone else yet." He ran a finger softly over her collar bone as he spoke, sending chilling tingles through her body.

Eva felt a dual sense of repulsion and relief – repulsion for his obvious insinuation, and relief that she could, perhaps, buy some time: there could be a way to escape – and she meant to take her sister with her. She nodded tearfully. "Okay," she whispered. "But not here, not yet. – I want to see her first."

Scabior grinned exultantly. "I told you I always manage to persuade my birds," he said.

Eva did not reply. She stood still, trying to quell her tears, willing him to back off, praying that he wouldn't require some advance on their bargain.

To her relief he released her. "Now then," he said, "we're going to take a little trip." He crooked his elbow to her, in parody of old-fashioned gentility, again with the mocking half-bow. Eva steadied her resolve and took his proffered arm.

In a sudden dizzying, sickening whirl they apparated away.


	3. Sleep, Steal Me Awhile

"Where are we?" Eva asked, not really expecting an answer.

They had apparated into the portico of some kind of ancient, crumbling manor-house. A sputtering, grimy lamp cast its bleak light upon a huge door. It appeared to be made from a single massive slab of oak, and was inlaid with two long panels of stained-glass: between these hung an ornate, but worn, bronze door-knocker.

"My beach 'ouse," Scabior replied sarcastically.

Eva shivered. She wished she still had her robes – the night was bitingly cold. "Where is my sister?" she asked.

Scabior shook his head. "One thing at a time, lovely," he said. He touched his palm to the door knocker, which seemed to glow green for a brief moment, and then the door creaked slowly open.

Encircling her wrist with his none-too-gentle grip, Scabior marched Eva over the threshold. A chandelier, thickly cobwebbed and missing most of its bulbs, threw a dim illumination down a long, dingy hallway.

As she was conducted down its gloomy length, Eva could just make out several oversized, faded tapestries, blotched with mould, hanging limply from walls mottled with rising damp. Trails of ivy wended its way from cracks in the ceiling. It was scarcely warmer inside than out.

There were several closed doors set on each side, and it was outside the last of these, near the far end of the hallway, that Scabior came to a halt. "Your room, milady," he said with mock deference, pushing it open.

It was a small empty chamber, lit by a single lamp on one wall, and bereft of any furnishings save some heavily-mildewed velvet curtains drawn across a small arched window. It was less draughty than the corridor, but still bitterly cold. The large, grey flagstones were bare.

"How long am I to stay here?" Eva asked.

"As long as I say so, darling," Scabior replied. "I've got things to do tonight, and I don't want my little birdie flying away, now, do I?"

"It's freezing," Eva said. "Can I have a blanket or something? – Since you so chivalrously took away my robes."

Unexpectedly, Scabior shrugged off his long leather coat. He strode towards her, and with one movement, threw the garment around her shoulders, wrapping it tightly about her, almost like a straight-jacket. "That'll keep ya cosy," he said, "– and keep ya thinking of me. Put you in the mood for later." He grinned, but she could see the real threat gleaming in his eyes.

Eva bit back a sour retort. She had to try and keep him sweet if she was ever going to be able to make an escape. And it would be foolish to reject the coat, which was thick and warm with the heat from his body. "Thank you," she mumbled.

He extracted his wand from its holster and held it in one hand, lightly tapping it against the other palm, watching her. She could see the outline of her own wand tucked inside his waistcoat and wondered if a summoning spell would be worth a try.

"I wouldn't," Scabior growled warningly, as if reading her mind. "Unless you want a few more bruises to add to your collection." He sauntered back to the door and turned to close it after him. "Sweet dreams, beautiful," he said softly.

The door swung shut. She heard the heavy scraping of a bolt being drawn, and she could sense Scabior adding his own magical precautions against her escape. Finally Eva heard him walking away, and she felt herself relaxing a little.

She pulled the coat even more tightly about her, and was uncomfortably aware of Scabior's scent enveloping her. It was strong, almost intoxicating.

What was she going to do? – She had no idea where Arielle was, but she supposed she was somewhere in this house. If only she could get her wand… But Scabior was too fast, and even if she managed to get it back, she knew that in a duel he would prove the stronger... She had never had the flair for duelling.

Eva went to the window and inspected it – but it was grated with thick iron bars, impossible to budge, despite the decaying condition of the walls. She wandered around the room, trying to find something – anything – that could potentially aid her escape. But her search was fruitless.

She sat down against one wall, bundling the oversized coat around her. How long would she be kept prisoner? One night? A week? – More? And what if he came back tonight, expecting her to… to…

Eva shivered, trying to imagine what it would be like to sleep with him – to sleep with any man, for that matter. She'd never had a boyfriend – well, there had been some innocent flirtations during her last year at school – nothing really serious, though.

Then she'd won a scholarship for a year's work experience at the Ministry library, and she had knuckled down, not taking the opportunity lightly – boys were just an unwanted distraction. When the work experience turned into a job offer, she had become even more serious, determined to make something of herself... especially after what had happened to her parents... her brother...

Every day she had worked long hours, going straight to work and back from Oxford by Floo, rarely venturing outside the Ministry into the great city of London – not even to Diagon Alley. She had been the model little Ministry worker.

And then, quite unexpectedly, the Resistance took over her life.

At first there were just rumours, the feeling that something was souring at the Ministry. Whispers circulated about new anti-muggle and anti-mixed-blood measures being implemented. Many lauded the changes – spoke of the "dawning of a pure new era of magic," – but for her own part, Eva was filled with horror and disgust: many of her school friends had been of mixed blood.

More rumours abounded: about a secret Order, fighting these abhorrent new laws. Eva learned that some of her colleagues had formed their own sort of rebel network, infiltrating the ministry offices, abetting those in the firing line – altering compromising documents, aiding their escape. It hadn't taken much to persuade her to join them.

She had been entirely caught up with the urgency of their cause. Romance was no longer just a mere distraction – it was entirely irrelevant. She had far more important things to do.

Eva sighed. She had always imagined her first time to be with someone equally inexperienced, someone with whom it would be a loving, shy exchange of mutual trust. – She could hardly bear to think of such a sacred, intimate act violated by a dissipated reprobate like Scabior. That he was undeniably good-looking made it all the worse. She knew his reputation as a libertine, and all those hundreds of women he'd had before would only magnify her inexperience and vulnerability and shame.

A tear slid down her cheek. What had led him to her? Had she been careless? Complacent? _Something_ had given her away, and now she was paying the price, and – a thousand times worse – her little sister was too.

"Stupid, stupid!" Eva admonished herself angrily. "You should've been more careful!"

She curled up into a little ball, feeling drained of energy. She might as well try to sleep – Scabior might not be back until the morning, and it would be useless to stay awake all night. She needed her wits about her if she were to rescue Arielle.

It took some time to drift off – the wind outside groaned noisily, and a tree by the window beat a creepy tattoo on the glass. The bare flagstones were freezing, and even the thick leather coat could not make them comfortable. But slowly, gradually she felt herself dozing off, until, at last she slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	4. Weasel and Stoat

Eva had no idea how long she slept for, only that when she awoke there was a watery grey light coming through the mildewy curtains.

_It must be a little after dawn_, she thought drowsily – vaguely wondering where she was, and why her body ached all over. Had she been… drunk? – Then it all came flooding back, and she sat up with a lurch. She rubbed her eyes and looked about her. The room seemed even smaller and more dismal than it had at night.

She stood up with a groan and paced around a bit, trying to bring life back into her body. She was sore, cold and hungry, and she needed the bathroom.

She went to the door and rapped loudly. "Scabior?" she called out. "Are you there?"

There was no answer.

Then, more softly she called, "Arielle! – Can you hear me Ari?" Throwing caution to the wind she yelled in full voice, "Arielle if you can hear me, it's Eva – and I'm coming to save you! Don't worry, baby – I'm coming – I promise!"

There was a sudden scraping of metal and the door lurched open, sending Eva staggering backwards.

The threshold was darkened by Scabior's towering figure. "What a touching display of sisterly delusion," he said, entering the small chamber. "Good morning, milady. Sleep well?"

Eva nodded, but to her deep mortification, she found that tears had suddenly sprung up and were running down her cheeks.

Scabior looked pleased. "Ah, you clearly missed me, then," he said with a sardonic smile. "…Dream of me, too, did ya'?"

"No," she said curtly, dashing her tears angrily away.

"What? – Not even with my weasel and stoat keepin' ya' all warm and cosy?"

At first Eva was confused – _weasel and stoat_? Then she realised he was using Cockney rhyming slang: weasel and stoat: coat. Impulsively Eva wrenched off the garment and hurled it forcefully at his feet. "I don't want it any more," she spat.

Scabior slowly stooped to retrieve the item, and as he straightened, she was nonplussed to see him bring it up to his face and inhale deeply. "Mm, smells girly," he said, his flinty eyes locked on her own.

"I need to use the bathroom," she said bluntly, ignoring him.

Scabior laughed in genuine amusement as he pulled on his coat. "Well, we mustn't keep a lady waiting." He gave a brief nod towards the door, and she edged past him into the hallway. "Next left and don't try anything stupid," he said.

Eva found the bathroom and slipped inside, quickly locking the door behind her.

It was a dim room with faded mosaic walls and tiled flooring. There was a chipped white sink on one side and rusty bath opposite. The loo was in separate smaller room at the back of the bathroom. There were two windows, but they were tiny and out of reach.

First she used the loo, then, going over to the sink, she peered at her reflection in the cracked mirror hanging above it. She looked pale, drawn, and her recent tears had made her eyes huge and startling, if a little red-rimmed. There was some faint bruising on her cheekbone from when Scabior had shoved her into the wall, and a small gash on her bottom lip, she supposed from the curse he'd hit her with. She touched the back of her head gingerly, and flinched. There was a very tender bump where it had struck the bookcase.

"You're a mess," Eva told her reflection.

She ran the tap and splashed her face, trying to clear the strange sense of unreality which had clogged her brain since she woke this morning. She scooped some water up to her mouth and took a couple of sips. It was ice-cold and tasted like rusting pipes.

She shivered, regretting her impetuousness in rejecting Scabior's coat.

She wondered if the bath ran hot. As she knelt down to reach the taps, the locked door suddenly flew open, and Scabior appeared. She jumped, more in surprise than fright, then glared up at him angrily. "What the hell are you doing?"

Scabior shrugged. "Just checking up on ya'." He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame in an infuriatingly nonchalant manner.

"I'm fine, thank you _ever_ so much," she said caustically. "Now if you'll please leave me alone…"

Scabior made no move to comply. "You takin' a bath?" he enquired, his mouth curling up at the corners.

"I was just wondering if – if it ran hot…." She faltered, blushing hotly at the glint in his eyes. "It doesn't matter," she mumbled, scrambling to her feet.

"Be my guest," Scabior said, his smile widening wolfishly. "I don't mind having a naked, wet girl in my bathroom. – I'll even help to soap ya'."

Eva grimaced. "You're disgusting," she said scornfully. "You know, people will be looking for us by now – my parents are very important politicians –"

"_Were_ politicians – mediocre ones," he replied tauntingly. "And now they're just a couple of disgraced fugitives, ain't they? Oh, yeah, I know all about them. Seems that treason runs in the family... Tell me, how often do they send you owls from Greenland?"

Eva rounded on him, shaking with rage. "Don't you dare talk about my parents like that!" she yelled. "You aren't fit to wipe their boots – you – you lowlife piece of _gutter scum_!"

She made to push past him, but he blocked her way, catching hold of her wrist as he did so. "Going somewhere?"

"Anywhere, away from you!" she cried. "You make me sick!"

"_Is _that right?" Scabior said softly. His mocking flippancy was gone and now his smile was edgy, menacing. She tried to pull away, but he merely caught her other wrist and drew her tighter against him. "Spiteful little madam, ain't ya?" he murmured. "Like a spitting cat, you are."

"Don't touch me, you pig – we had an agreement!" She tried to twist away, but he held her fast.

He stared down at her, his expression somehow tender and brutal at the same time. In his eyes there was a strange mixture of infuriation, derision, resentment, and something else… something latent, lurking – and deeply frightening.

He suddenly and forcefully pushed her backwards, so she staggered and half-fell, striking her upper leg against the edge of the bath. "I'd keep my mouth shut if I was you," he muttered, turning away. He was breathing hard.

"Well, you're not me," Eva retorted angrily. She regained her balance and rubbed at her bruised thigh. "You're nothing more than a brainless, pathetic bully –"

"I said shut your mouth!" He turned back to her, his eyes glittering with such a violent intensity that she recoiled. "Let's make something perfectly clear, beautiful," he snarled. "If you keep on pushin' my buttons, I _will_ rape ya' – and I won't be fuckin' nice about it, either. I've got half a mind to throw you on the floor and fuck you senseless right now. I'm _that_ close to it, my girl." He snapped his fingers. "_That_ close."

Eva stared at the tiled floor, her already-pale face going quite white. She knew he had the physical advantage of her, but her own sense of pride and moral superiority chafed under his tyranny – could not help but rebel against it.

Again the tears slipped unbidden down her cheeks – but they were tears of frustration more than fear. She wanted to scream at him – tell him what she really thought of his bullying, thuggish behaviour, to declare herself the moral victor.

…And yet – and yet – he had not really hurt her, not yet – he'd even shown some compassion towards her, letting her sleep in his coat… With a jolt of clarity, she suddenly realised that if Scabior lost control of his temper, _she_ would lose any chance of controlling his actions. She had to be more careful: the man was volatile, unpredictable. One moment he was facetious and mocking, the next intimidating and cruel. How could she really know what he was capable of?

She simply _had _to keep him under control. If he turned his wrath against her she would be in serious trouble…

Eva took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," she whispered, eyes still bent on the floor.

There was a brief silence, and she wondered what Scabior was thinking – but she dared not catch his eye. She heard him pace towards her, and she flinched in anticipation of his touch.

"Alright, Eva," he said quietly, his voice close to her ear. The sound of her name on his lips was strange, sending goose-bumps all over her body. "That was just a warning. But I _ain't_ a gentleman, an' I _ain't_ got a gentleman's temper – so don't push me too far, or you'll regret it. Understand?"

Eva nodded. She held her breath as he caught a tendril of her hair and wound it around his fingers. She could feel the powerful tension in his body, and instinctively knew that one false move would seal her fate. She stood absolutely still, enduring his scrutiny as steadily as she possibly could.

Finally he straightened up and she sensed him relaxing. When he spoke his voice had regained its faintly-mocking timbre. "Okay, beautiful, come with me." He turned and walked to the door, and Eva trailed obediently behind him, wondering if she would finally get to see Arielle now. She longed to say something, but knew that it would be too much of a risk after their recent altercation.

He led her back along the corridor, and then, turning at the end, they ascended a flight of dingy stairs. The wooden boards creaked ominously under Scabior's heavy tread.

At the top of the stairs was a second long hallway, this one unlit: the far end entirely hidden in sable shadows. Scabior turned and gripped Eva's arm, guiding her into the darkening gloom. Part way along they came to a large door, set into the right-hand side of the hallway. Outside this Scabior halted.

He pulled Eva roughly up against him with his left arm, covering up her eyes with his hand. She felt his body moving as he performed several complex wand movements – clearly the door was protected by more than a simple unlocking spell. Then he took his hand away from her face.

Eva held her breath, staring into the dark room beyond the threshold. Could it be – Arielle? Instinctively she made to enter, but Scabior held her back. "Hold up, beautiful," he said gruffly.

Unable to control herself, Eva cried out, "Arielle?!" – But her voice was met only by a hollow echo, and then – silence.

She looked up at Scabior, pleadingly. "Is she in there? Let me in – please, Scabior! – I have to see her!"

"Calm down, will ya," Scabior muttered, his grip still restraining her. After a moment he released her. "Alright – in ya go," he said.


	5. Ultimatum

Eva rushed into the room. At first she could see nothing, but then gradually her sight adjusted to the murky half-light provided by a solitary lamp suspended from one wall.

It was a large, sparsely furnished bedchamber, and like the rest of the house, tatty, damp and very cold. The dark wooden floorboards were bare, save for a large, green rug, discoloured and threadbare, in the centre of the room. Against one wall there stood a huge oak bed, and upon it lay a small, prone figure.

"Arielle!" It was half gasp, half sob. Eva ran over to the bed.

It _was_ her sister. It was her small childish body, her mop of red curls, her little pixie-like face – but something was wrong. Her eyes were closed, she was asleep – but Eva could tell it was no ordinary slumber.

"Arielle, baby," she whispered. She climbed onto the bed and drew the little figure into her arms, rocking her gently. "Wake up sweetie, it's me: Eva. I'm going to look after you, baby. I'm here."

Arielle did not stir, but Eva could feel her shallow breathing and see the flush of life on her round cheeks. She sat silently, hugging her sister against her, tears spilling down her face. Never in a million years had she imagined that she would put her little sister in danger. Her heart swelled with grief and rage.

She heard Scabior approaching. Quickly and gently lying Arielle back down, Eva drew herself around on the bed, instinctively making herself into a protective barrier between him and her sister. She rose onto her knees, her fists balled, and savagely cried, "What did you do to her?"

Scabior loomed by the bedside, a faint smile of amusement on his lips. He shrugged. "Nothing to get your knickers in a twist about, darling. She'll be alright – if you play nice."

Seething with an uncontrollable fury, Eva forgot her recent altercation with the man, her resolution to keep him sweet, and heedless of consequences she shouted at him, "You despicable coward! She's a twelve year old _child_! You complete – utter – _bastard_!"

Scabior stared down at her. His smile lingered, but it had changed in quality – his eyes glittered icily in the dimness of the room. "I'm starting to think about investing in a horsewhip for you, you know," he said. "Teach you some manners... However. ..." He brought out his wand and gave it a lazy flick. From a shelved recess in one wall there flew down an empty parchment scroll and a quill in an inkstand. He directed them onto a small table beside the bed. "Lucky for you, I've gotta go out for an hour. By the time I get back, if that scroll ain't full of names, I'll be testing out something more permanent than a sleeping spell on your precious little sister. Got it?"

Eva's breath caught with dismay at the threat. Her stomach churned. Chest heaving, she forcibly restrained herself from retorting: she could see in his expression that he would brook no more insults from her.

A nasty, triumphant glimmer lit up his eyes, as if he perfectly comprehended and enjoyed her inner turmoil: the conflict between her hatred of him, and her fear of what he might do. "Have. You. Got. It?" he repeated slowly, menacingly.

She longed to leap at him, to scratch her nails down his face. But she merely whispered, "Yes."

"Wonderful." Scabior bestowed upon her a very sarcastic smile.

She flinched as he reached out a hand to her face. He stroked her cheek with his thumb in a gesture at once so gentle, yet so full of implicit threat, that Eva felt almost paralysed by his touch.

He bent over her, leaning in close, and as he spoke his breath was hot on her cheek. "And you can start figuring out your favourite positions, too, cos you and me 'ave got some unfinished business on this bed, 'aven't we?"

Eva could not repress a shudder. His proximity overwhelmed her: she felt stifled and confused, and yet her senses had suddenly gone into a state of hyper-perception – she noticed the beads of sweat above his curving lip, the dark stippling of stubble, the deep creases bracketing his mouth, the sallowness of his pale skin contrasting weirdly with his matte dark hair and jetty lashes and brows. There was that same strong combined odour of spirits, tobacco and leather which she noticed before, but now she also perceived a layering of subtler scents – ash, sweat, soap, damp leaves, wood-smoke – and something else – something she could not name, but which made her giddy, numb and frightened.

Scabior watched her, his thumb still stroking her cheek. His smile had changed again – it was neither amused, nor cruel – but instead there was a kind of tenderness, pity and hunger, like a hunter who had caught so beautiful and rare a creature that he was loathe to kill it. Like one who would fain release his quarry, just to repeat the pleasure of recapture...

He brought his mouth so close to her that she felt his breath on her lips as he spoke. "One. Hour."

Then he straightened up, and with a callous laugh, he turned on his heels and stalked out of the room, drawing the door closed after him with a sharp bang.


	6. Gift From The Grave

At first Eva felt too numb to move, even to think.

She had been sure that somehow she could find a way to get her sister and herself out of this nightmare of a situation – but here she was, useless: no wand, no ideas, Arielle unconscious, no-one to help, and a brutish thug of a man poised to force her into becoming his – his –

Eva shook her head, grimacing. She wouldn't let it happen. – And as for betraying her colleagues – her _friends_ – Never!

Impulsively she grabbed the quill from the inkwell and snapped it in half, then hurled the glass bottle across the room. It clattered against the wall and dropped to the floor, splattering black ink all around. Then she picked up the scroll of paper and scrunched it into a tight ball. Her hands shook with a duel sense of grim satisfaction and uneasiness for the retribution which would surely come her way.

She turned to her sister and felt her forehead: it was clammy and cold. She should really put her under the blankets, try to get her warmer. Eva pulled back the heavy brocaded quilt and nestled her sister's small form beneath it. As she tucked the material tightly around her, she realised there was something strangely stiff about Arielle's right arm – as if had been bound to a splint.

Her heart skipped a beat. Could it be – _could_ it? –

Hastily she pulled the quilt away again, and rolled back the woollen sleeve encasing her sister's arm. She gasped, and now her heart began to thud with excitement. "Oh, you brilliant girl!" she whispered, drawing out the long, slim wand from its hiding place.

It was not her sister's own wand – _that_ had obviously been confiscated by Scabior. It was an elegant, slim baton of yew, with a core of dragon heart-string, belonging to their brother, Michael. With a lump in her throat Eva ran her finger along the satiny texture.

...Michael had drowned five years ago, when Eva had been in her third year at Hogwarts, and Arielle only a little girl. He was an experienced sailor, had a passion for muggle boats, and the accident should not have been fatal. But on this occasion he did not have his wand, and when the boat capsized and he'd become entwined in rope, he was unable to free himself. It was Arielle who discovered Michael's wand weeks later, caught amongst some rocks near the lake-edge. Evidently, it fallen out of his robes just before he had gone out onto the water, that last fateful time. Arielle carried it with her wherever she went, even after she got her own rosewood one from Ollivander's.

Of course the Snatchers would not have known that.

Heart thudding, hardly daring to hope, Eva pointed the wand at her sister and murmured, "Recanto Somnolentum." She nearly cried out with happiness when she saw Arielle stir and her eyes flicker open.

At first the young girl looked confused and disoriented - then her expression became shadowed with an unmistakably disturbed remembrance – followed by a glancing smile of pure happiness when she saw her big sister next to her.

Eva held a finger to her lips, warning her to stay quiet. Arielle nodded, then sitting up, she silently threw her arms around her Eva's neck. They held each other tightly, fiercely. Eva whispered, "Are you okay, baby?"

Arielle nodded, and Eva felt a euphoric surge of relief. She swept the mop of red hair from her sister's forehead and kissed it fervently. "I'm so sorry – this is all my fault!"

"I'm fine Evie," said Arielle softly. She looked around the dismal room. "Where are we?"

"I'm not sure, but we've got to get out of here," Eva replied urgently. She clambered off the bed and helped Arielle to slide down onto the floor. "Take my arm," she said. "I'm going to apparate us to Auntie Sadie's in Hogsmeade. We've got to get you back to school – it's the only really safe place."

The sisters clung tightly to each other, and Eva cleared her mind and focused on her Aunt's modest bungalow, nestled on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. She began to turn, bracing herself for the familiar but ever-disquieting squeezing sensation – but it didn't come.

"It's not working," she said, trying to keep her voice low, though she felt like screaming in frustration. "There must be an Anti-Disapparation jinx on this room." Then she remembered that Scabior had apparated them _outside_ the mansion, onto its portico. She groaned. "I think the whole house is jinxed against apparition – we'll have to get outside somehow."

"Well, come on then, let's go!" said Arielle. She ran over to the door and tugged at the handle: it was stuck fast. "It's locked," she said dispiritedly, as her big sister joined her.

"I know," said Eva. She gently steered Arielle to one side and raised her wand towards the door. "Alohomora." Nothing happened. She tried another incantation, and another – but to no avail. She paused for a moment, thinking. There was one last thing she could try, but if Scabior or anyone else was in the house, there would be trouble...

"I've got to risk it," she muttered. "Arielle, cover your ears – this could be loud." She took a deep breath and pointed her wand at the door. "Confringo!"

She braced herself in anticipation of a loud explosion – but when the lightning-like spark hit its target, there was a muted sucking sound and the spell was absorbed into the mesh of invisible charms protecting the door. It remained in one impenetrable piece.

Her heart sank. "I can't break it," she said. "The charms are too strong." She stood still for a while, staring at the obstructing object, racking her brains for a solution. Then she turned back to her little sister. "I've got an idea, but it's going to be risky."

Arielle's eyes flashed fiercely. "I'm not scared!" she said.

"Well, I am," Eva admitted. "I'm scared it might not work."

"We've got to try, anyway," said Arielle, determinedly practical. "Just tell me what we have to do."

Eva looked at her little sister, blinking back tears of pride. _I wish I was that brave, that valiant_, she thought. _All I feel is... fear. _She shook her head, trying to rid her mind of Scabior's taunting, threatening visage – and the eerie dread that somehow her fate was inextricably bound to his own dark purpose. ...One thing she knew for certain, though: if her twelve-year-old sister wasn't going to bottle out, then sure as hell, neither was she.

By the time Scabior was due to return, Eva and Arielle had gone over their plan in minute detail. "Remember – stay absolutely still," Eva cautioned as she tucked the blankets firmly under Arielle's chin. Her voice was unsteady. "And you _must_ wait until you're completely sure he won't see you. If he suspects anything – _anything_ – we're done for."

"I'll make sure," said Arielle calmly.

"And d-don't worry about me, even if it looks... bad. Just make sure he's completely distracted. Okay?"

"Okay, Evie."

Eva squeezed Arielle's hand tightly. "Thank goodness I've got such a brilliant little sister."

They both jumped at the sound of a heavy tread ascending the stairs. Swiftly, Eva planted a kiss on Arielle's cheek. "Good luck, baby," she whispered. Arielle shut her eyes and curled back into her former posture of sleep. Then Eva slid to the side of the huge oak bed, and waited.

The door flew open, and Scabior appeared on the threshold. He stood still for a moment, his eyes coolly scanning the room, taking in the spilt ink and broken inkwell on one side of the room, and the young witch sitting on the bed, arms crossed defiantly, on the other.

The grooves bracketing his mouth deepened slightly. "I was 'oping you wouldn't do what you was told," he said. Beneath the abrasive Cockney accent, his tone was treacherously mild. "Cos it's going to be a real pleasure to make you."


	7. Fair Beguiler

"We had a bargain," Eva said tersely, combatively.

Scabior stepped inside the bedchamber, closing the door after, but Eva noticed that he neither locked nor charmed it behind him. "We did indeed, darlin'," he replied. "And you 'aven't kept your end of it."

"You agreed to let Arielle go!" she cried.

"In exchange for a scroll full of names."

"No – in exchange for me... for us... I mean –" she faltered, blushing furiously.

Scabior's voice was scrupulously, dangerously courteous. "Go on, sweet-'eart... in exchange for us... – what?" He began to pace slowly towards her.

Eva gritted her teeth. "You _know_ what," she said grimly.

A strange incandescence glowed in his eyes, like the backlight of storm-clouds by a white sun. "I guess we'd better get down to business then, 'adn't we?"

"W-wait," she stuttered, "– you let Arielle go _first_!"

Scabior smiled, but it seemed more a baring of fangs than any expression of mirth. "I'm afraid she ain't going anywhere until I got those names... and neither are you, beautiful."

"That isn't going to happen!"

"No? Well, how 'bout I tell ya' what _will_ happen..." His words were lightly, evenly weighted: as if they were simply discussing the weather. "I'm seeing two possible scenarios 'ere, sweet-'eart... First scenario: _you_ fill out the scroll, and then _I_ fuck ya'..."

Eva cringed inwardly, knowing Arielle was bearing witness to such vile words. Still advancing inexorably towards her, the Snatcher continued, "Second scenario: _I_ fuck ya', and then _you_ fill out the scroll. … So, which one is it going to be?"

Glowering, cheeks aflame, Eva replied, "Third scenario: I refuse to fill out that scroll _until you let my sister go_."

Scabior laughed shortly. "Oh no, that's not the third scenario," he said. "The third scenario is, you refuse to fill out that scroll... and then guess what 'appens?"

Eva shrugged, trying to look indifferent.

"Well, I'll tell ya, just so – as – you – know." His gaze was level, undeviating. "First of all, _I_ fuck ya'. And then I call around my boys, and _they_ all fuck ya'. And then _they_ call around their mates –"

"I get the drift," she muttered.

"I'm glad ya' do, beautiful," he replied, drawling his words subtly. "You see, by the time me and my boys and their mates 'ave all finished with ya... you're going to be so – properly – fucked – up, that you'll be _begging_ me to let you fill out that scroll." He came to a halt near the bed, looming over her like a forbidding shadow. "That sound like a good option to you?"

Eva's stomach churned. Wordlessly, she shook her head.

"I didn't think so," he said, with an unpleasant sneer.

In a near-inaudible whisper, Eva said, "Not on the bed."

"What was that, my darling?"

Eva fixed her eyes on the floor. She cleared her throat. "I don't want to do it on the bed," she said. "Not with my sister right there."

Scabior grinned. "On the floor, against a wall, makes no difference to me, sweet-'eart. I even shagged a bird on top of her own wedding cake, once. Wouldn't recommend it, though. Very messy it was, and 'er husband weren't too happy 'bout it, neither."

Eva grimaced scornfully. "You're disgusting," she said.

"So you keep tellin' me," he returned derisively. "One of these day's I'll prove it to you."

She ignored him, and in a matter-of-fact tone she said, "Let's just get this over and done with." She stood up and pushed past him, walking over to the green rug in the centre of the room. She pressed the tattered material with the toe of her shoe. "Is this thing going to be adequate?"

Scabior's eyes narrowed warily, as if he sensed she was up to something. "You got a knife concealed in your bra or something, beautiful?"

"I wish I did," she retorted, "but sadly no. Like I said, I just want to get it over with. What do I do? Take off my clothes?" – And, steeling her nerves, she pulled her woollen jumper over her head and cast it on the floor. Her T-shirt was by no means revealing or clinging, but it didn't stop her feeling intensely vulnerable, and she stood still, arms crossed and shoulders hunched, her eyes fixed on her shoes.

For a moment he just stood there, considering her quizzically. Then he strode over to her and roughly pulled her against him.

Scabior bent his head down and pressed his mouth to her, parting her lips with a hard, impellent tongue. A strong, bitter taste – of cigarettes, cheap coffee and, oddly, burnt cinnamon – pervaded her senses, and it was only with supreme effort that Eva did not wince or recoil. His grip was crushingly tight, and all her instincts screamed to rebel, to resist, to run away. But she could not – she _must_ not.

Scabior's hands entwined in her hair, pulling her head back. His arms were crossed around her body, pinning her firmly against him. The kiss itself was demanding, bruising. He hadn't shaved that morning: the skin around his mouth was like sandpaper, rubbing her lips raw.

She began to feel light-headed, and wondered when he would stop, let her breathe. Finally, he broke away, straightening up, though he did not relinquish his hold on her.

"Not bad," he said, a supercilious smile playing on his lips.

She forced her body to relax and soften against him, and adopted a flustered, starry-eyed expression. "Oh," she gasped breathlessly.

Scabior regarded her with a degree of amused incredulity. "Well, for an ice princess, you don't take too much warming up, do ya?"

"I d-don't know," she stammered. It was not at all difficult to blush, or to tremble. She knew that he would interpret her flustered discomposure as an inevitable acquiescence to his irresistible prowess.

"Oh, you want it bad, alright." With a deft, forceful movement, he grasped Eva's wrists and over-balanced her, and suddenly she was flat on her back on the green rug, Scabior on top of her, catching her lips with his mouth once more.

Unbound tendrils of his long hair fell like a dark curtain around her, giving her the odd sensation of being cloaked, shrouded.

Now his hands moved over her body, and she gave an involuntary cry of shock as she felt them slide under her T-shirt and onto her bare skin. But she knew she must not let her rising anxiety ruin the plan.

She redoubled her efforts: reached her arms up around Scabior's neck, caressed his coarsely tangled hair with her fingers. Softening her mouth, she kissed him back, her tongue tentatively mingling against his invasive, probing one.

He reached one hand down and drew her leg up, pinning her in what she supposed was a well-practised position, his hips grinding suggestively against her. She could feel the unmistakable pressure bespeaking his kindled lust, and for a moment she wondered what would happen if the strategy failed: if her first experience really would be at the hands of this brutish, lascivious man...

But she could not afford to panic. She had a part to play.

Eva moaned and arched her back: pressing up against him, willing, inviting – just a girl who couldn't help herself... She was disquieted to feel an unbidden tremor of responsiveness, as if her own body was as deceived by her tactics, as the man against whom they were employed.

Then, with a sudden jolt of terror, she felt him begin to work open the buttons on her jeans.

_Now_, she silently prayed. _Do__ it now, Arielle._


	8. Windows to a Sinister Soul

As if on cue, her sister's high voice rang out, loud and confident. "Stupefy!"

There was a flash of red light, and Scabior immediately dropped, collapsing on top of Eva, his full weight almost crushing her. With a struggle, she pushed him off, and clambered to her feet, pulling straight her disordered clothes.

Gulping back relieved tears, she embraced Arielle tightly. "Well done, baby – you were perfect, just perfect. … I'm – I'm sorry you had to see that." She glanced down at the unconscious form on the floor and shuddered.

"It's okay," said Arielle, giving her big sister a reassuring squeeze. "I'm not a child, you know – I understand."

Eva nodded. "Thank you," she said with a shaky smile. Arielle retrieved her sister's woollen jumper and handed it to her, and Eva pulled it quickly on, glad for its warmth, its protective comfort. Then she took a deep steadying breath, trying to gather herself together. "He didn't lock the door when he came in," she said to her sister. "I think we can just leave – but we better be quiet, just in case."

"What about our wands?"

"Oh my god – how could I forget?" She held out her hand and Arielle relinquished Michael's wand to her. "Wait here a second," Eva said.

She steeled herself, and turned back to Scabior.

He lay on his back, quite still, as if asleep. He looked somehow younger, less rugged – almost... beautiful. _More like a sleeping prince than an unconscious thug_, Eva thought. _How is that possible? ... _Then she realised: his eyes were shut. They were the most frightening thing about him, unfathomable, changeful, sometimes entirely impassive – yet brimming with unspeakable possibilities, dark shadows of sinister promises... With a shiver, Eva thought, _The eyes are supposed to be windows to a person's soul..._

She wondered how long exactly it would be before the spell wore off. Several hours at least, if she remembered her school lessons rightly.

She knelt down beside him and pointed Michael's wand at his chest. "Accio My Wand," she commanded. She heard a muted percussive sound, like a bird beating its wings inside a leathern bag, and suddenly one side of Scabior's coat flipped open. From a deep inner pocket her confiscated wand materialised, and flew into her outstretched hand.

Relief broke like a wave over her. She put Michael's wand down on the floor beside her, and took up her own one in both hands, turning it over and over, inspecting it for marks, scratches or splinters. The gleaming, burnished maple was unmarred. Then she pointed it at Scabior again. "Accio Arielle's Wand," she said. Nothing stirred.

She heard her sister gasp in dismay, and then Arielle dashed over to pick up Michael's wand. "Accio My Wand!" she cried, pointing it at Scabior. "_Accio My Wand!_"

"I'm sorry, baby," said Eva, putting her arm around her little sister. "We'll get you a new one, I promise – but we have to go now – right now."

At first Arielle looked like she would cry, or throw a tantrum. Her brows shot together and her cheeks flushed angrily. But visibly she blinked back her tears, biting her lips. "Yeah, let's get out of here," she said.

Eva led her sister over to the door and was relieved to discover it opened with a single twist of the brass handle. Quietly the pair stole into the hallway, and, hand in hand, descended the flight of creaking wooden stairs. As they reached the bottom, Eva felt her heartbeat thudding in excitement. They were so close – _so close_ to freedom!

In her haste she almost dragged Arielle towards the huge oaken entranceway door. Eva fixed her eyes on the panels of dark stained-glass in the door, which were faintly back-lit by the daylight beyond. – But suddenly, registering in her brain like an electric shock, Eva saw a shadow pass across the panes.

She lurched to a stop.

Eva grabbed Arielle tightly in her arms and hissed, "There's someone out there!" For a brief moment the sisters stared at each other, eyes wide with fear. Then Eva grasped the door-knob of the door nearest to them, and they bundled inside the room. Eva closed the door noiselessly behind them, and taking out her wand she made a quick locking charm.

Arielle was already darting quietly around the room, Michael's wand at the ready, searching for a hiding place or escape route. Eva put her head against the door and listened. Two men – more Snatchers, she supposed – had entered, and were striding noisily down the hallway. They seemed to be arguing about something. Kneeling down, she pressed her ear to the key-hole.

"Why should 'e always get first dibs on the best catches?" one of them was growling. "Every sweet piece of tail goes to 'im, while the rest of us do all the 'ard work like fuckin' mugs."

"Cos he's the guv'ner, that's why," retorted the other man gruffly.

"Don't be a fuckin' sigh, mate. We deserve a bonus now and then, know what I mean?"

"We'll get our turn, if you just keep your norf and souf shut."

"I've kept it shut for too long," said the first man. "I don't want no more cheap brass and sloppy seconds. I want a nice, tight pussy for once." Then he called out loudly, towards the stairwell, "Oi, Scabior! We want to 'ave a go at those two sisters you got 'ere! C'mon mate, you gotta share!"

The voices died away as the men turned at the end of the hallway to mount the stairs.

Eva swung back to Arielle, her back against the door, chest heaving with panic. "They're going to find him!" she whispered urgently. "We've got to get out now – NOW!"

Arielle dashed over as Eva opened the door. Grabbing hold of each other's hands, they entered back into the hallway, and sprinted up to the great oaken entranceway door. Eva grasped the huge bronze door-handle – identical to the one on the other side – and tugged at it.

It did not budge. "Oh god please," she whispered, rattling the handle desperately.

Arielle pointed her wand and tried an unlocking spell, but with no effect. The sisters jumped as they heard a shout from upstairs, and heavy feet running on the floor above them.

For a second they just stared, like deer caught in an oncoming car's headlights, then suddenly, simultaneously, they raised their wands to the door, and together they screamed out, "CONFRINGO!"

There was a huge explosion, and the entire door – oak, glass and all – seemed to simply disintegrate into particles of dust, leaving a gaping hole in the wall. Eva murmured a brief prayer of thanks: it seemed that, with so many complex jinxes and charms on the interior doors, the exterior one had been left relatively unprotected against escape. – But the danger was not over.

"Oi!" One of the Snatchers emerged at the end of the hallway, wand pointed directly at the girls. "C'm'ere, ya little bitches!" A spark of red light shot towards them, but Eva had already cast a deflecting spell, and Arielle followed it up with one that knocked him off his feet.

Eva marched determinedly out onto the portico, Arielle's elbow firmly interlocked with her own. Fixing Aunt Sadie's house clearly in her mind, she began to make the turn.

She heard another shout, probably from the second Snatcher – but by then she was gripped by the sickening squeezing sensation of a successful apparation, and she knew that she and her little sister were both going to be safe.


	9. House of High Cards

_**Hi everyone, I just want to say thanks for following my story so far. **I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Just to let you know that in the interest of plot development I'm deviating away from Snatcher shenanigans for the next few chapters, to pursue a little romance and adventure, but if you stick with Eva on her journey there will be plenty of pay-off in the long run! (Don't worry, he'll be back soon... and badder than ever!) I think you'll like my new OCs, let's just say they're all delightfully... flawed. Let me know what you think! ... **Happy reading ^^,**_

* * *

"A pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Bowen. I knew your parents well."

The man speaking was a tall, distinguished-looking wizard, in his mid forties. He was dressed expensively and well, and wore his robes with a kind of unconscious ease, as if he didn't particularly care about his appearance, but would be incapable of looking anything other than impeccable and suave.

Eva was certain she recognised him from somewhere: his face was memorably chiselled and sharp, framed by a glossy sheet of long hair – raven black, save for a single white streak – but she could not place his name.

He extended a long-boned hand, and Eva shook it warily. For a brief moment he brought up his other hand and enclosed her own. She found the gesture patronizing, faintly irritating.

She noticed a dark sapphire glittering on his fifth finger, but his ring-finger was bare. Unmarried? Or divorced? - She had thought she was supposed to be joining a family.

"Please, do take a seat. May I call you Eva, my dear?"

Eva assented, and sat down on the baroque-style chair he had indicated, facing an imposing mahogany desk. He took his place on the opposite side and regarded her with a congenial smile.

Awkwardly she said, "I'm sorry... but I don't know who you are, sir."

At this, the wizard tilted his head back and laughed softly, revealing a row of perfectly even, white teeth. "Forgive me, my dear: I presumed you had been already informed." With a fluid flourish he put his hand to his chest and made a brief nod. "Saul Lacland, at your service."

_Now_ she knew him – yes, of course, he was sometimes in the political section of the papers, one of the Ministry's far-right stalwarts, his mild manner belying hard-line pro-pure-blood opinions. She felt a squirm of dislike: too often she had encountered such intolerant hauteur at school, especially among the Slytherins - but worse, even among a handful of her own Ravenclaw housemates, who expected her, as a witch of pure-blood descent, to share their supremist views and beliefs. At times it had been quite an alienating experience.

"Nice to meet you," she mumbled, forcing a semblance of a smile. She peered about the room – his office, she supposed. It was furnished in a refined style, not quite ornate, but bespeaking of luxury and excellent taste. It was not, she thought, a relaxing atmosphere: in fact, she felt strangely disoriented by her surroundings.

"So, Eva, you are to be my guest for the meantime. – A great honour."

Eva glanced up at him doubtingly. _Is he being sarcastic?_ But his face, like his voice, was smooth and ostensibly sincere. As if sensing her mistrust, the wizard added - "I only mean to say, my dear, that I have long owed your mother and father a heavy debt of gratitude, and it is my great honour to be able to return it at last."

_You mean, they took the fall for you,_ thought Eva ungraciously. But she merely said, "Yeah, thanks."

"You have grown into a very lovely young lady," he remarked. "A credit to your parents."

Eva snorted.

Saul Lacland raised a questioning eyebrow.

"I'm not sure that 'credit' is quite the right term," she said testily. "Perhaps, 'liability' might be more accurate. Otherwise I wouldn't be sitting here now, would I?"

"That is indeed true, child."

She glared at him. _I'm not a child._

The man sat back in his chair, lips slightly pursed, observing her over the wide stretch of mahogany. "Let us speak frankly, Eva."

"I already was," she replied. "But please, feel free to join in."

If he was bemused or annoyed by her sarcasm, he did not betray it. His face remained persistently mild. "You are now under my protection," he said, with a cordial curve of his mouth. "With my protection comes my regulation. Do you understand me thus far?"

Eva scowled. "Basically, you're telling me I have to do what you say."

"Correct, my dear." He spoke benignly, gently. "As you must be well aware, Eva, my position in the Ministry affords me many advantages – however, I will not have them put at risk by any irresponsible actions made by a member of my household – of which you must now consider yourself."

"Your confidence in me is just overwhelming," said Eva snappily.

The man shrugged. "I do not mean to offend you, my dear. Merely, I am taking into consideration your past activities, your present difficulties..." He reached over to a tray laden with an unusual enamelled china tea service. "Will you take some refreshment, Eva? - The blend is exquisite."

"No thank you," said Eva flatly.

"I insist," he replied politely, pouring her a cup and handing it to her on a saucer.

Eva held the cup on her lap, refusing to drink. _I get it, I get it: you know what's best for me: from who I'm friends with, down to whether or not I want a cup of tea._

Lacland sipped his own tea, watching her through the rising steam. At length he remarked, "My dear girl, I can't help detecting a certain... resentment in your manner."

His overbearingly kind, modulated voice was maddening. With a loud clatter Eva dumped the cup and saucer onto the mahogany desk, slopping tea onto its gleaming surface. "You might find this completely unfathomable, Mr Lacland, _sir_, but I'm _actually_ starting to get pretty tired of being _bullied by men_!" Her voice cracked and she gulped back the angry, hot tears threatening to surface.

For a moment he did not reply. His face, his eyes were quite unreadable. Then, with a voice full of assumed sympathy he spoke. "Ah, yes, I heard about your run in with certain members of our illustrious Snatchers... A most unfortunate incident – traumatic, I do not doubt, for one so young..."

"One so young?" Eva spat, disbelievingly. "Oh right, so if I had been a bit older, I'd probably have quite liked it, would I? Enjoyed the attention? - One of those bastards almost raped me, you know. I guess _that_ might have been a bit of fun, _if only I were older_!"

Saul turned his palms upwards, beseechingly. "Forgive my clumsy turn of phrase, Eva. You are quite understandably distressed. I have often wondered at the Ministry's judgement in employing some of the, ah, _heavier_ tactics in this war against perfidy and corruption. … However, you may rest assured that you are entirely safe from their persecution, while you abide with me."

"Abide by your rules, you mean," she retorted hotly.

"Yes, that too." He tilted his head back slightly and regarded her levelly. "Be reasonable, my dear. This situation was of your own making, not mine. I am being practical – there is no question of my (as you put it) 'bullying' you. ...You must see that I need to protect my own interests."

Eva nodded, her lip curling scornfully. "Of course you do."

Saul breathed a faintly weary sigh. "I'm not asking you to like me, Eva, only to respect my judgement, my decisions – yes: and my rules. Can you do that?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"But of course. If you object, you are free to leave my establishment at any time. However, please understand that in agreeing to this... arrangement, I have fulfilled my obligation to your parents – wholly and finally. The moment you leave here, you are on your own: entirely answerable to the law and quite beyond my protection. Do you comprehend what that means?"

Eva nodded, wincing. _Play nice or be thrown back to the Snatchers_. Essentially, her hands were tied. She felt stifled, claustrophobic. "What exactly am I supposed to do here?" she asked, in a strangled voice. "Do you have a job for me?"

Saul shook his head briefly. "I'm afraid not, Eva. For now, you are simply a long-term guest in my house. Make yourself comfortable. You may wish to further your studies – a Ravenclaw at school, were you not? My library is at your disposal. I think you will find it very comprehensive..."

"That's it? – So, I'm basically a prisoner? I can't even go outside?"

"On the contrary, you may go where you like – however, in the interest of your own safety, I must insist on providing you with a chaperone."

Eva stared in disbelief. "A _chaperone_?"

"Indeed. I have arranged for my nephew to stay with us for the meanwhile. He knows London well: can escort you around the parts you wish to visit. There are some very fine restaurants in the immediate area. ...He is a very capable wizard, an expert dueller, in fact. With him you will be quite safe."

"Safe from whom? The Snatchers? I thought you said they wouldn't be bothering me any more."

Lacland shrugged lightly. "One can never be too careful. Your safety is, of course, paramount."

Eva bit back the furious words rising to her lips. Through gritted teeth she bitterly replied, "Thank you _so_ much for caring."

Choosing to ignore the obvious sarcasm in her voice, he smiled amiably at her. "Not at all, my dear. I am glad we are able to so thoroughly understand each other."

_Oh, yes, I understand you, Mr Saul Charming Bloody Lacland,_ Eva thought sourly. _I understand what "chaperone" means. ... Someone to haunt my every step. Someone to watch my every move._


	10. Minder

"Well, hello there."

Eva looked up from her book to see a rangy, very good-looking wizard sauntering towards her. He appeared to be in his early twenties, and she decided it must be the nephew Saul had spoken of. She was a little nonplussed to see that he had a frank, friendly countenance – she had been expecting another typical sneering, arrogant Slytherin type.

She watched as he sprawled out next to her on the couch, as if they were the oldest friends in the world. "How do you like your new digs?" he asked.

Eva stared at him doubtfully. "Uh... who are you?"

The young man peered at her book. "That any good?"

"I said, who _are_ you?" Eva repeated.

"How long have you been cooped up in here, anyway?"

Eva felt an unbidden smile curl her lips: a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "Are you going to answer my question?"

He turned to her with a quizzical expression. "You answer my three first."

Eva took a deep breath. "Alright... ummm... 'I don't know' – 'Yes' – and, 'Three days'."

"You don't know if you like your new digs?"

"No, I don't know. Not yet, anyway... So, _who are you_?"

He stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. "I'm the guy with the filthy rich uncle," he said. Then he gave her a very wide, very disarming smile.

So he _was_ Saul Lacland's nephew. There definitely was a resemblance – the raven-black hair was there, albeit cropped short, as were the charismatically angular features. But where Saul's eyes were dark grey and affably unreadable, his nephew's were a vivid shade of emerald green, and sparkled puckishly.

Eva assumed a cool look. "So, you're going to be my babysitter," she said. "Lucky you."

"Yeah, well, I've always been a pretty lucky guy."

She turned back to her book, pretending to keep reading, and for some time they sat side by side, unspeaking.

The young man seemed to be totally unfazed by the silence, and gradually Eva realised he was actually leaning over to read the page with her. She snapped the book shut "...I _suppose_ you have a name?" she asked, trying to sound indifferent.

"Uhuh."

"Well?" said Eva.

"Well, what?"

She giggled despite herself. "Well, what _is_ your name?"

"Whoa – what's with all the burning questions?" He gave a quirky grin, then added, "I'm Vincent, since you keep asking. – And you must be my new little sister, Eva."

"Sister? I thought you were supposed to be Saul's _nephew_."

"Okay, you're my new little _cousin_, then. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear cousin." He held out his hand, and she shook it willingly. She was struck by the difference between his hearty handshake and his uncle's creepy, condescending one.

"What did you do so wrong to land this job?" she said.

"What, _this_? – This is a reward, not a punishment." Vincent folded his hands behind his head, leaned back and studied his boots admiringly, with mock-nonchalance. "If I've been a good nephew, I get to stay for a while, drink all my uncle's vintage Madeira, deplete his stock of imported caviare..." He cast upon her a speculative side-long glance. "Sometimes he throws in a pretty girl as a kind of extra bonus."

Eva blushed, but his tone was teasing and inoffensive, and she was instinctively warming to him. "Throws her into the caviare?" she replied jokingly. "That sounds gross."

Vincent laughed. "Actually, I think that sounds pretty fun."

"I'd rather be thrown into the Madeira."

"Ahh – a lady after my own heart." He sat back up straight, grinning at her delightedly. "You know, I have a feeling we're going to get on like a house on fire."

She gave a suddenly penetrating, slightly bitter look. "That's the whole idea, isn't it?"

"It is?"

"Yeah, you're supposed to be all friendly and charming: put me at ease – and I just blurt everything out to you, like a stupid little idiot."

"You forgot 'good-looking'."

"What?"

"Friendly, charming and good-looking."

She ignored his teasing smile, and said sombrely, "Look, I know why your uncle is so anxious to oblige in keeping me here. He and his Ministry cronies want me to accidentally lead them back to my... my friends..."

Vincent chuckled. "Ah, don't worry about that old barbarian. He spouts all the Slytherin ideologies like they're going out of fashion – but all he really cares about is his money."

Eva felt her spirits lifting slightly._ Is that true?_ she wondered. _Am I really just here because Saul Lacland owes my parents big time?_

"Well," she said defensively, "I might as well say now, that if your uncle thinks he can use _you_ to worm any information out of _me_, he better get used to disappointment."

"Honestly, I don't think he cares what you used to get up to," Vincent replied sincerely, "– as long as you don't do it _now_, on his watch."

"That's where you come in, then? ...Policing me?"

"Distracting you, I think might be nearer to it." He stood up and held out his hand to her. "Come on then, might as well start now."

Eva stared up at him in surprise. "_Now_?"

"Never let it be said that I don't take my duties seriously."

"What, _right_ now?" said Eva.

"Yeah, why not?"

"Well... I don't even know you. How do I know you're not secretly a Snatcher?" She said it lightly, but there was a slight edge to her voice.

Vincent gave a pained look. "C'mon – have you seen those guys? They look like freaks – you'd think they dress in the dark. Give me a little credit here, please."

_Well, he has a point_, thought Eva. Certainly there were no similarities to be drawn between his casual, stylish attire, and Scabior's rough, almost eccentrically unkempt appearance. "Fair enough," she said with a small smile.

In a more serious tone, Vincent added, "Yeah, well... Uncle Saul told me they gave you some trouble recently, so I don't blame you for being cagey. Those creeps can be pretty heavy... But honestly, they won't come near you while you're with a Lacland."

For the first time in ages, Eva felt herself really beginning to relax. There was something so genuine and open in the young wizard's countenance: a confidence without arrogance which she found both appealing and reassuring. So what if he was a glorified minder? At least she wouldn't be stuck by herself any more. "Okay..." she said hesitantly, "but... what are we going to do?"

"Seriously? You live in London, now, young lady. What _aren't_ we going to do?"

His grin was wide and winning – and infectious. _Well, if this is a charm offensive, it's certainly working_, she thought. She put out her own hand and allowed Vincent to pull her to her feet. "Can we go to Hamley's first?" she said.

"What, are you kidding – that muggle toy shop? I love that place!"


	11. The Cutty Sark

"Want to go to Greenwich today?"

Vincent was already at the breakfast bar making coffee when Eva wandered in, sleepy-eyed and hung-over, still in her pyjamas. He was fully dressed, fresh-faced and wide awake, despite their both having been out until the small hours the night before.

Eva self-consciously tugged at a snarl in her hair, wondering just how severe her morning face was. "Yeah, okay," she said, voice croaky. "Anything cool to do there?"

Vincent snorted. "No, it's just a big black hole, you ignoramus, you," he said, shaking his head with an incredulous smile. "...Why – you got somewhere else to be today? Having tea with the Queen?"

Eva grinned wanly. "Actually, I hadn't quite ruled out going back to bed, but... well, can you give me an hour to get ready?"

"An hour! - What are you, a muggle?"

"No, I'm just a spectacularly hung-over witch."

Vincent laughed unsympathetically. With a flick of his wand he made the coffee pour itself into a cup, then he took a pinch of some greenish powder from a glass jar and stirred it in. The liquid changed colour and consistency. "Drink that up, you little light-weight," he said, handing the cup to her.

Scrunching up her nose, Eva obediently took a sip. Her face cleared. "Oh, yum! That tastes like strawberry mousse!"

"Feel better?"

Eva realised the jaded fuzziness and dull headache had completely cleared. She beamed at Vincent. "Oh wow, that stuff is just brilliant."

"My own concoction," Vincent replied with a bow. He glanced at his watch. "Right, I'll give you ten minutes to sort out that birds-nest and get into something less... flannelly."

If Eva had thought her life with the Laclands would be suffocating, Vincent had soon changed her mind. He behaved more like an indulgent boyfriend than a vigilant minder, whisking her around every part of the sprawling metropolis. He had an extensive knowledge of London – both the magical and the muggle – and not a day went by that wasn't packed with adventure and fun. She could hardly believe how much she'd missed, coming to work at the Ministry every day for nearly two years, and seldom venturing out into the city.

For a whole week they had made it their mission to follow a muggle guide book, hopping on and off the Tube, visiting the attractions scattered abundantly around the city: the Tower of London, Kew Gardens, the London Eye, Buckingham Palace. They wandered through the labyrinth of colourful streets around Camden, and elbowed their way down the tightly-packed pavements between Piccadilly and Oxford Circus. One entire afternoon was spent lazily drinking cocktails on a canal boat in Little Venice, and that evening Eva flopped into bed pleasantly muddled and fuzzy-headed.

She and Vincent seemed to naturally just click. They had settled into an enjoyably flirty, bantering sort of interaction, and Eva soon forgot her initial suspicions about him. She could just about forget everything, when she was looking into his laughing, brilliant green eyes...

Eva insisted on them taking the Tube out to Greenwich. She got such a kick out of the fascinating, noisy world of London's famous muggle train network. Like everyone else, they stood closely together, accepting the strange enforced physical intimacy of an over-full rush-hour train. Not for the first time, Eva found herself admiring her companion's tall, slimly athletic physique, which felt pleasantly warm and firm, pressed up against her body. "Do you think muggles ever get bored of living here?" she whispered to Vincent.

He smiled down at her. "Haven't you heard the quote: 'The man who is bored with London is bored with life'? A muggle said that, you know."

Eva sighed happily. "I could easily live here for the rest of my life."

"Yeah, me too," Vincent replied.

She looked at him, suddenly curious. "Why don't you? - Live in London, I mean? … In fact, where _do_ you live?"

Vincent shrugged. "Here and there," he said. "Most recently in Gloucestershire; before that, Edinburgh..."

"But you grew up here, in London, didn't you?"

"Yeah, this is my home-town."

"What about your folks?" she asked. "Do they still live here?"

He hesitated for the minutest moment. "No," he said briefly. His voice was light, but there was something in his manner that forestalled Eva from asking any more. ...A family falling-out? She wondered. Come to think of it, he never mentioned anyone from his own life: parents, siblings – apart from his uncle, Saul.

Funny, he was always so open and gregarious, and yet she really didn't know anything about him – not even what he did for a job. Somehow he'd never really been specific: he'd said something about "recruitment and personnel" but beyond that she had no idea... She'd sort of got the notion he was a more a gentleman of leisure than anything.

Finally they alighted at Greenwich Station, and Eva felt an instant liking for the place. The high-road had a quaint, bohemian feel, with retro-style cafés and a smattering of second-hand book and record stores. Green slopes of a gracious-looking park swept up in the distance behind them; in front, the road led down to a glistening expanse of water.

Eva gasped as a beautiful old tea-clipper ship, moored at the harbour, came into their sight. "That's - that's the Cutty Sark, isn't it?" she said, her voice catching.

"Yeah, pretty nice, isn't she? ...Good to see her back in shape, she nearly burnt down a few years ago. I mean, can you believe that?" He shook his head, laughing. "They were supposed to be restoring her, and set her on fire instead! Typical clumsy muggles, huh? –" Vincent stopped as he suddenly noticed the tears swimming in her eyes. "What is it?" he asked, his voice full of concern. "Are you okay?"

"I – I'm fine," she replied, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "It was one of my brother's favourite ships..." She saw the question in his face and nodded sadly. "He... uh, he passed away a few years ago."

"I'm so sorry, Eva," said Vincent gently. He put his arm around her and they wandered up to the mooring. He didn't say anything else – no questions, no awkward words – he just kept his arm tightly and comfortingly about her shoulder.

They came to a standstill beneath the ship's carved figurehead – a woman with wild hair and a bare, shapely torso. Eva stared up at it admiringly. "She was a real witch, wasn't she?" she said.

"Cutty Sark? - Yeah, she was a Scottish witch... There's a famous muggle poem about her."

Eva nodded. "I remember we read it in school once, ages ago, in History of Magic. I can see why Michael liked this ship so much – I mean, she's really beautiful, isn't she?"

"What's not to like? Beautiful ship, beautiful half-naked witch – yeah, I can see the appeal." He grinned, and Eva felt the warmth of his kindness like a ray of sun on her. He was like no other Slytherin she'd ever met – like no other wizard, in fact.

She could almost... _almost_ forget she had ever been involved with the Resistance... that there even _were_ any problems in the world, at all. ...And as for her misadventure with Scabior – well, that seemed like nothing more than a fading bad dream.

Vincent was everything she imagined that a young wizard should be: funny, smart, engaging, kind... a proper gentleman… he never made her feel uncomfortable or embarrassed, he was never disrespectful or suggestive. And despite her fears, he never once brought up her former activities at the Ministry. It was really as if he had no interest in the secrets of her past.

The secrets of her past...

Every so often, with a pang of guilt, she remembered that her friends were still doing their dangerous work to help the cause.

Had she basically abandoned them? Here she was, gallivanting around London, having a wonderful time, while _they_ were on the front line, fighting injustice, trying to save people's lives and livelihoods...

Perhaps she should try to make contact? – But she knew she could not. Communicating with her Resistance friends was the surest way to land them, and herself, in deep trouble.

...No, for the moment she was stuck exactly where she was. She might as well enjoy herself.


	12. Sticks and Stones

Eva rarely met with Saul Lacland: he seemed content to leave his nephew to oversee everything to do with her. She still felt a shiver of dislike when she saw his immaculate, elegant figure gliding from one luxurious salon to another, his long hair falling sleekly behind him like a black silk cloak.

Just once, Eva had been reading outside in the courtyard, when she happened to look up, and discovered him observing her from an upper balcony. His gaze was fixed directly on her, level and watchful. He made no sign of acknowledgement, merely turned and drifted serenely away. Eva found it – not exactly frightening – but definitely unsettling.

But she would willingly have put up with a hundred creepy uncles just to be friends with the nephew.

..._Friends_... She pondered on the word. She was well aware that she was beginning to like Vincent Lacland as much more than just a friend. In fact, she was pretty sure she had fallen head over heels in love with him.

It wasn't just his engaging personality, or his charismatic good-looks... She trusted him. That was it. She trusted him to let her be herself. Somehow over their weeks together he had brought her out of her shell – the protective layering of studiousness and introversion she had woven tightly around herself, ever since those devastating events of her early teenage years, with her brother's death and then her parents' scandal and defection.

With Vincent, she felt like a new, upgraded version of herself – someone funny, clever, beautiful, sparkling. Someone lovable.

...But was he falling in love with _her_? Sometimes he looked at her in such a way that made her pulse race – sometimes he seemed on the verge of saying something important... but then he would rumple her hair and tease her, and she felt like he simply saw her as a sort of younger sister...

Eva glanced over at him. They were on there way to Diagon Alley – something she had put off doing until now. She'd had some misgivings about going there, an anxious feeling that she might run into trouble... But she wanted some new books, and finally decided to bite the bullet. There would be nothing to really fear, as long as she stuck close to Vincent.

Once again, Eva insisted they take the Tube. It was just past rush-hour and they had managed to get seats on opposite sides of the train, facing one another. Vincent was flicking through the pages of the free Metro magazine, and Eva was able to study him at leisure.

He certainly was – not just handsome – but really striking. ...That unusual combination of jet-black hair and emerald eyes, those angular lines of his bone-structure and his full-lipped mouth, always curved in a tantalising smile... But it was his countenance: friendly, open and winsomely assured, that was really attractive. Irresistible, in fact.

They reached Charing Cross Station and alighted, briskly walking arm and arm the short distance to the Leaky Cauldron. They were about to enter, when Eva suddenly halted, tugging on Vincent's sleeve to stop. He smiled down at her. "What's up?"

"Nothing... well... it's just... what if I see someone from the Ministry, or from school? What if they ask why I'm no longer at work? Won't they think it's strange?"

"Oh, right. Can't you just say you had to leave? That you're up the duff or something?"

She gawped at him. "What – _pregnant_? You're joking, right?"

Vincent's eyes sparked roguishly. "Why not? … We'll just tell anyone who asks that I've, er, _compromised_ you, and that we're out shopping for wedding clothes. How does that sound?"

Eva flushed heatedly, stung by his flippant tone. "Not exactly what I had in mind," she said, through gritted teeth.

"Huh – well, how about that for rejection?" Vincent replied with faux chagrin. "Here I am, trying to make an honest woman of you –"

"I know everything is a big joke to you, but this is my _reputation_ we're discussing."

He threw back his head and laughed.

She glowered. "What's so funny?"

"You are!" He shook his head, grinning. "I'm trying to protect you from a reputation as a _spy_ – some might even say a _traitor_ – and you're worrying about whether Sally from Year Five Potions thinks you're no better than you should be."

Hot tears sprung into Eva's eyes. She hadn't expected – hadn't been _prepared_ – for him to use those words: _spy, traitor. _They rang in her ears, sounding callous and cruel. "Oh..." she choked in a strangled voice, "...thanks a lot."

Blindly, she turned away and began to run back towards the Tube station, tears pouring down her cheeks.

She heard Vincent behind her, calling out, "Hey, wait! – Stop, Eva – I'm sorry!" She felt him grab her hand and he pulled her to halt. "God, I'm so sorry, Eva – I honestly did not mean for that to come out... the way it did."

"Yes you did!" she cried, gulping with angry sobs, "You really th-think I'm a traitor!"

"No, no I do _not_! I don't think that for one second. Please, don't cry, Eva. – Oh man, I really screwed up... Come on, I'm going to apparate us somewhere quiet." He clasped her against him, and she felt the intense squeezing sensation as he made the turn.

Eva tried to calm herself down, but fresh sobs kept spilling out. She could feel Vincent's arms around her, heard him murmuring, "Shhh, come on, Eva, stop crying, please – please." His soft words and firm embrace had a gradually calming effect, and at last Eva's tears abated. She grappled a hanky from her coat pocket and blew her nose.

"Where are we?" she asked with a small hiccup, looking around. They seemed to be on a small grassy island, surrounded by a perfectly still, beautifully shining lake.

"Holland Park," Vincent said, his voice subdued. "I discovered this place when I was a kid... to muggles it's just a muddy duck pond."

Eva nodded. She felt cold, drained of energy.

"You're shaking," said Vincent. His arms lingered around her, and he didn't seem inclined to remove them. "...Listen, Eva, I'm sorry about what I said. I didn't mean it, I swear." She stiffened, remembering the hurtful insinuation, but he quickly continued, "I think you're an amazing girl. You're funny, and sweet... and beautiful. Really beautiful."

A warm glow slowly began to spread through Eva's body. Vincent's voice was low, caressing. "Believe me," he continued, "I only suggested about 'compromising' you because – well, I kind of wished it was true."

Now she stared up at him, hardly daring to believe. "...I thought I was just some k-kid sister to you," she said falteringly.

His handsome face broke into a wide, almost dazzling smile. "Oh my god, Eva, do you realise how hard it's been to keep my hands off you?"

An electrifying surge of emotions rendered her motionless, speechless.

Vincent's green eyes were blazing fervently. "You little vixen, don't you know I'm going crazy for you?... I think I'm in love with you." And then he bent over and kissed her, and Eva suddenly understood why people spoke of going weak at the knees, of seeing stars. ...She felt almost drunk, delirious... the world was seductively dark and spinning... the world was infinitely bright and still...

He held her tightly, but not roughly, against him. His arms wrapped securely around her shoulders, locking her into a precious, beautifully iridescent world, where she was safe and warm and blissfully, exquisitely happy. His lips were soft, yet full of pressure and questioning desire – seeking, wanting, asking...

And she could not help but answer –_ yes, yes... oh yes..._

Somehow they were lying on the ground, neither noticing nor caring that the dampness of the grass was soaking them through. Their kisses became less gentle, more urgent and passionate, their bodies arching against each other, greedy for union, for release.

Vincent pushed Eva's light cotton shirt up, and his fingers deftly worked the fabric of her bra down. He bent his head to kiss her softly, and she gasped at the intoxicating sensation of his tongue flicking over her flesh, exquisitely augmented by the incredible freedom of her trust in him, and the deep humming desire that resonated through her body for him.

She vaguely wondered if he was going to take her, there, on the wet ground... and she decided that she hoped he would...


	13. Mask of a Stranger

Eventually Vincent broke away. He was flushed, breathing hard, trembling with the effort to contain himself. "We better stop now, or I'm not going to be able to."

Eva glanced away self-consciously. "I... I don't mind..." she said shyly.

Smiling, Vincent reached down to smooth a wayward tendril of hair off her face. "I think we should wait," he said gently.

Eva's heart sank a little with disappointment. She understood. He suspected it would be her first time, did not want to rush her. He leant down to kiss her again, but she sensed that he had regained control over himself, that the heat and the need and the urgency had subsided.

"I might not be very experienced," she said defensively, awkwardly, "but I'm old enough to know what I want... to know that I want you."

But it was almost as if he didn't hear her. "You're a lovely girl, Eva," he said, "– naïve, innocent. I like that – I _respect_ that."

She was suddenly reminded of his uncle's patronizing manner, and it made her instantly touchy. "Ugh, you make me sound like a moron," she said irritably, pushing him away and tugging her bra and shirt back into place. "I'm not _that_ naïve." She sat up and began to pat down her wet clothes crossly.

Vincent sat up beside her, looking at her quizzically. "You're angry with me?"

"No," snapped Eva shortly.

"Yes you are," said Vincent, with an amused grin. "Let me get this straight... you're angry with me because I didn't take advantage of you just now?"

"Whatever," she muttered.

"Hey, I'm supposed to be looking after you, not violently ravishing you at the first available opportunity."

"I _can_ look after myself, you know," she retorted caustically.

There was a pause. Then she heard him murmur, "...That isn't precisely true, is it?"

She stopped mid-pat and turned to him, her eyes glowing dangerously. "What is that supposed to mean, exactly?"

Vincent ran a hand through his hair, wary at the obvious note of discord in her voice. "...Well, I mean, you're too trusting, aren't you?" he said. "That's the whole reason why you're in trouble, isn't it? That's why I'm here, looking after you."

"_What_?" It was barely a whisper, but simmering with gathering outrage.

"Oh come on, Eva, don't look at me like that." He reached towards her, but she jerked away from him. "It's a good thing – a rare thing – for a girl to be a little naïve these days. But it can be dangerous, too. You very nearly got arrested for treason: you could have ended up in Azkaban."

"That's right, you think I'm a _traitor_." Her voice seethed with sarcasm. "Thank you _so_ much for reminding me."

"Of course I don't think that! – You're not capable of being a traitor." Vincent's eyes were imploring. "You don't have a treacherous bone in your body, Eva..."

"Oh, so I'm _not_ a traitor – I'm just incredibly thick! Just a retarded little half-wit running amok at the Ministry! Oh god, please _stop_ with the overwhelming compliments!"

"No, I did not mean that, and you know it," Vincent replied, flushing with annoyance at her wilful misconstruction of his words. "But whether or not you want to admit it, you were clearly misguided – led astray by your friends, by people you trusted –"

"WHAT?!" She could hardly believe her ears. "LED ASTRAY?"

"Don't try to defend them, Eva – they took advantage of you, of your trusting nature –"

"You're the naïve one, Vincent Lacland!" she burst out, scrambling to her feet. She was shaking, furious. Staring down at him she snarled, "As a matter of fact, it's fast becoming clear to me that _you're a pompous bloody idiot!"_

For the first time since they had met, Vincent's countenance clouded over, and his mouth, habitually curled up at the corners, set into a line of thorny displeasure. "I wouldn't start with the name-calling, darling," he muttered.

The "darling" riled her beyond words – it brought back Scabior's bullying, taunting tone, and she yelled at him, "Then don't _you_ dare call me naïve – I knew _exactly_ what I was doing, and I would do it all again, a thousand _thousand_ times over!"

He jumped to his feet and rounded on her, and she was suddenly all too aware how tall he really was – in his anger, he seemed to tower over her. She had never seen his eyes like that before: so hard and dark and glinting. "So, you _are_ a traitor, then!"

"No, no, no, no, NO!" She was hysterical now, beside herself, totally beyond self-control. She felt like her heart was going to burst. "Whatever you think I've done – whatever I _have_ done – I _did for_ _my country_! _Our_ country! _This_ country!"

"In your deluded mind." His tone was cutting.

Chest heaving, fists clenched, Eva shouted, "Don't you realise there is something terrible happening? People being judged – _persecuted_ just for having the wrong blood status? People disappearing, just for saying the wrong thing? Oh my god, Vincent, can't you see how – how – how _broken_ everything is? … It isn't _ME_ who is the traitor – it's everyone else, sitting back and letting it happen – _THEY'RE_ the traitors!" Then she almost screamed at him, "- INCLUDING YOU!"

She could hardly look at him – his face, so recently tender and ardent – now white, set hard, the mask of a stranger.

The tears he had so recently kissed away once again streamed down her cheeks: unchecked tears of helpless rage and anguish. "...I thought you were d-different," she stammered, gasping, backing away from him as if from some unbearable, white-hot flame, "but you're j-just like all the others... a bigoted, arrogant, conceited _SLYTHERIN_."

She couldn't breathe – she was suffocating, the world was reeling – she had to get out – to go somewhere, anywhere. In the sickening turmoil of her thoughts she could focus on only one place.

Home.


	14. Snatched

She has been asleep, or unconscious.

There is a thick fog of confusion clouding her brain, punctuated by a dull thudding in her temple. Slivers, flashes of memory sift and keel through her mind. _A shining lake, a canopy of azure sky. Vincent's smile: tender and flushed. _

_Vincent's face: ashen and stony. _

_She's screaming in slow-motion. Screaming like her heart will break. She's stumbling backwards, clutching her hair. She can't breathe. She has to get away, or she'll suffocate. She'll die. She's got to get – home –_

_Home._

...The slivers of memory shatter and reform, like a kaleidoscope.

_She's curled on the porch of her house, gulping the clean air, crying. Crying with rage. Crying with relief: she's home. She's home. She's safe._

_She's not safe._

_From no-where, three figures materialize. Men. Rough, burly men, wands wielded, thickly-muscled arms taught and ready. Snatchers._

_One of them is talking, but she's still crying, she can't hear, she doesn't care. They're grinning. She inherently understands that look in their eyes. They'll probably rape her. After everything she's been through, it's all going to end the same way. She'll be raped, she'll be interrogated, maybe even tortured, and then she'll be sent to Azkaban._

_Well, let them do it. _

_Let them do it, but she's not going to be awake to experience it. She points her wand at her head. _

_The men halt in their tracks; they look suddenly uncertain. They hadn't expected this. One of them – the one closest to her – speaks to the others. They all lower their wands. He's speaking to her now, but she still can't hear him. She presses her wand hard against her temple, stares directly in his eyes and says, "Stupefy."_

_Everything is black._

She has been asleep, or unconscious. There is a thick fog of confusion clouding her brain... but now it's beginning to lift. She's in some kind of... tent? She half sits up – but a blinding pain cuts through her brain like a hot knife – and she flops back down with a groan.

She feels around for her wand, but of course it has been taken.

Vaguely she registers that her clothes have been removed – that she's now wearing only a rough, oversized man's shirt. Has she been raped, then? But instinctively, she knows that she has not. ...In some ways she's disappointed – she had hoped it would all be over and done with while she was unconscious. So, they did not intend to show her even that mercy.

She wonders what time it is. The light through the canvas is dim and shadowy, perhaps dusk, perhaps dawn. Perhaps they're in a forest.

She feels sick, achy – almost hung over. She remembers Vincent's potion, the sweet strawberry flavour, the instant relief from nausea and pain. She can see him laughing at her, his emerald eyes sparkling. _"Drink that up, you little light-weight."_

Her own eyes are burning. How could all those weeks and weeks of friendship, of blossoming love and trust, crumble in a matter of seconds? How could he do this to her?

...So, she belongs to the Snatchers now. At least Arielle is safe at school. They can do what they want with her now: she will never betray her Resistance friends.

She wonders what Scabior will have to say to her – about their last encounter; about her escape from him... She can't imagine him being very gracious about it. ...Is that why she hasn't been raped? Is she being saved for Scabior? Technically, she owes him her virginity. That was the bargain they struck.

_How could you do this to me, Vincent?_

She rolls onto her side, taking in her strange, new surroundings. It is a large tent, though tall rather than wide: probably extended by charms – probably protected by charms, too. Something about the atmosphere is disturbingly familiar... a scent she has encountered before... _spirits, tobacco and leather... ash, sweat, soap, damp leaves, wood-smoke... and something else – something she could not name, but which made her giddy, numb and frightened..._

She knows whose tent this is.

It is furnished: but roughly, sparely, untidily. She is lying on a mattress on the ground, partly covered by a heavy blanket. There is a bed – a proper one, on legs – on the opposite side. It is rumpled, as if in recent use. A tall, battered sideboard stands at a lean by one canvas wall, a bar stool tucked underneath. There is a solid-looking sofa-chair in one corner, and a wooden chest in another. Brass-hinged, dome-lidded, like a pirate's chest.

"_You little vixen, don't you know I'm going crazy for you?... I think I'm in love with you." _His voice still echoes in her head, filled with passion, with need, with desire. For a few sweet moments, her life had become a beautiful fairy tale. For a few sweet moments, she was his.

But she wasn't his. He had turned on her.

His eyes, she remembers the look in his eyes: hard as cut jewels, glinting with contempt. _"So, you _are_ a traitor, then!"_

Yes, her own eyes are burning... but they seem to have run out of tears. Not her heart, though. Her heart is weeping blood.

She decides to try sitting up again. Maybe she can attempt another escape. She had acted foolishly, apparating home – of course the Snatchers would have set up trapping-jinxes, in case she returned there. She should have gone to Aunt Sadie's, like the first time – but she had been too distressed to think properly.

With effort, she manages to haul herself into a sitting position. Her whole body is shaking with the exertion. Her limbs feel leaden, but she's getting used to the pain. She waits for a moment, gathering her will-power. Then she staggers shakily to her feet.

She feels better standing up: not so dizzy, not so weak. She takes a deep breath, then tries out an experimental step. The entranceway of the tent is only a few feet away. Would she have enough energy to make a run for it, if she can get out? …No. ...But she might as well try anyway. One, two, three steps forward. Two more, and she's close enough to reach out and touch the canvas... She can hear voices outside.

"– Yeah... he just arrived... Be 'ere any minute."

"She still out?"

"She was a minute ago."

"What's he gonna do with her?"

"Dunno. Rennervate her?... With his _wand?_"

"Ha! I know what I'd do..."

"What's that, then?"

"Rennervate her sweet little cunt with my tongue."

The men snigger, and she shudders with disgust. So, Scabior is coming for her, then. Should she lie back down and pretend she's still unconscious? Or should she meet him here, on the threshold... maybe manage to scratch his face as he comes through the opening...

Carefully, silently, she reaches out towards the canvas flap – but her fingers cannot make contact – it's as if there is an invisible cushion of air repelling her touch. She's been locked in with charms... well, she expected as much.

She limps over to the sofa-chair and collapses into it. She doesn't have the energy for this – not for thinking, not for moving, not for fighting. She has no recourse, no defence. If Scabior wants her, she's pretty sure that she's his for the taking.

There's a murmur of voices; a moving of shadows outside the tent. The door-flap furls itself back into a tight scroll, revealing a burly, masculine figure standing in the opening, silhouetted against a dappled backdrop of sunlight sinking through a wooded glen.

Eva gives a small, sad, careless laugh. "Hello, Scabior," she says.

And because she wants to feel a moment of power, before he takes it entirely away from her, she adopts an impudently honeyed tone and sweetly adds, "Did you miss me, pig?"


	15. A Debt to Settle

With a flick of his wand Scabior re-sealed the canvas door behind him.

He paused – stood there, looking down at Eva for a moment, his face perfectly unreadable – then he turned away from her and sauntered over to the wooden chest. He briefly murmured an incantation and the lid creaked open.

Eva felt a tremor of anxiety. Her initial insolent offering had given her a rush of adrenaline, but that was quickly abating, and she wondered what he had in store for her.

Scabior tucked his wand into its holster then shrugged off his coat and hung it across the top of the open lid of the chest. Then he began to unfasten the buttons of his antique-military-style waistcoat.

Eva bit her lip. So, he wanted to get straight down to business, then, did he? Well, she wasn't going to beg or plead for mercy...

She could not repress an intake of breath when he pulled his shirt over his head. One side of his back and both shoulders were covered with a mantle of intricate tattoos, extending down his left arm to the elbow – many of the markings she recognised as symbols of the dark arts – many more she did not recognise, except that they were of a distinctly sinister aesthetic. His matted brunet hair, striped with red and roughly braided, fell between his shoulder blades, emphasising their muscled breadth.

Scabior stood for a moment, tilting his head to each side, rubbing his neck with his hands, as if warming up before a boxing match. Then he turned to her.

Now Eva saw that the tattoos also spread down onto his left breast-bone, culminating in a strange, distorted representation of a head of some horned animal, similar to the one he wore as a ring. The light was fading fast, and a play of dark shadows fell across his face, accentuating the planes and angles of his bone-structure, giving him the severe appearance of a carved marble statue.

Sabior reached down to unloosen the studded belt from the waistband of his plaid trousers. He pulled the belt free and doubled it up, then flexed it in his hands for a while, as if considering to what use it might be put. But after some moments he let it drop to the floor beside him. Then he extracted his wand from its leather holster before unbuckling that and letting it fall, too.

Eva realised she was shaking with an energizing mixture of fear and defiance.

She had meant to stay calm – to let him do whatever he wanted with the minimum reaction or resistance on her part – but now that he stood over her, she felt the familiar rebelliousness which always seemed to flood into her, whenever she was cornered.

"I hope you've got your CV updated, Scabior," she flung at him challengingly, "because if you touch me, you'll be out of a job tomorrow."

Scabior's eyelids flickered briefly, as if he registered an element of possible truth to her words. Eva plunged recklessly on, "You realise I'm under the protection of Saul Lacland? – He's a member of the Ministry cabinet, in case you didn't know – you being a thick-headed Snatcher and all."

She glared up at him, daring him to refute her.

Scabior tilted his head back slightly, his gaze fixed on her under an edge of sooty lashes. A twitch of a smile played on his mouth. "Still 'aven't learned to control that saucy tongue of yours, 'ave ya, sweet-'eart?"

"I speak as I find," she retorted.

"_Do _ya now? ...Well, allow me to speak as_ I _find..." Scabior reached up and scratched at a small, barcode-like tattoo above his collar-bone, and with a jolt of apprehension Eva realised it was the branded indicant of an Azkaban ex-convict. He leaned forward slightly, and said in a blasé tone, "..._I _find a little girl, all alone in my tent, who 'appens to owe me a very... _particular..._ kind of debt."

"I don't owe you anything!" she spat heatedly. "You _forced_ me into making that promise, Scabior, – a-and – and I renounce its validity!"

"Oh, 'ad your fingers crossed, did ya?" he said sarcastically. "I'm afraid that don't cut it with me, beautiful. A debt's a debt, and guess what?... I've got news for you, darling... I – always – get – paid."

A flame of vengeful wrath told in his eyes, and Eva suddenly realised her bravado was not going to check him. She changed tact, and shook her head beseechingly, pleadingly. "Please, Scabior, be fair –"

He laughed: a hard, short bark. "Let's talk about playing fair, shall we? ...Yeah, let's 'ave a real long discussion about that nice little trick you played me."

"I...I'm sorry... I had no choice –"

"Neither do I, sweet-'eart." His tone was now dangerously polite. "Cos I already gave you a chance to do things the nice way, the _fair_ way – but you blew it didn't ya?" He suddenly bent over her, his arms braced on each side of the chair, his face inches from her own. Softly he repeated, "I said, _'didn't ya?'_"

Eva mutely nodded, and Scabior nodded back at her, mockingly.

"So," he continued, straightening up, "now we're gonna do things _my_ way." He raised his wand and levelled it at her. "Get up," he ordered.

"Fine," she said sullenly, climbing to her feet. "But if you hurt me, you'll be answerable to my guardian, and believe me, he won't be happy about it."

Scabior smiled rakishly. "Oh, I'm not going 'urt ya, beautiful – well, not much – as long as you be'ave yourself, that is." He gestured to the bed. "On ya get, darling."

Eva took a deep breath, and gritted her teeth. Well, if this was going to happen, it was going to happen. She walked over to the bed and stood beside it, arms crossed, her eyes fixed stonily at the opposite wall.

Scabior advanced slowly, closing in on her with deliberate, measured steps, as if savouring the final moments of her persecution, before the commencement of her subjection.

Eva lifted her chin slightly. Whatever happened, she would _not_ cower – she would _not_ give him the satisfaction of seeing her distress. As her line of vision became obscured by his approaching figure, Eva shut her eyes, and oriented her mind far away from her body, far away from her present plight.

… _She was wandering down a blossom-laden avenue in Oxford, a spring breeze coiling through her loose hair... she was standing barefoot in a field of wild-flowers, her face turned up to the sunlight... she was lying down on a bed of lake-side rushes... no, on a bed of grass... a bed of sweet-smelling, damp grass... ...locked blissfully in a young man's tender embrace... _

"NO!" The scream tore itself jaggedly from Eva's throat as Scabior unceremoniously thrust her down onto the bed._ It's not supposed to be this way, _she thought wildly,_ – it shouldn't be this way – no, – No, – NO – – –_ "LET – ME – GO!"

She struggled and twisted like a wild-cat, biting, clawing, resisting with every fibre of her being – but Scabior was too strong, too resolute: he restrained her easily, one hand trapping her wrists together, the other slapping hard across her mouth to stifle her screams. "Don't fight me," he muttered in her ear, "– don't fight me, girl..."

His body was hot and unyielding through the single layer of fabric which alone divided them, and suffocatingly heavy – and suddenly, inherently, she knew she had as much chance of fending him off as a bird caught in the jaws of a wolf...

When she realised there was no escape, Eva's strength simply drained out of her, and, with a muffled sob, she gave up her struggle, utterly defeated.

Scabior smiled grimly, exulting in her surrender. "That's it, beautiful," he growled huskily, reaching down to grapple with his flies, "– you just lie back and think of England."


	16. Love Thine Enemy

Suddenly there was a sound of tearing canvas, and the side of the tent was ripped wide open. A voice – an exquisitely familiar, male voice – spoke softly but commandingly. "Let her go, Scabior."

Eva's eyes flew wide – her heart surged with an incredible, almost unbearable hope. He – he had come for her! He still cared about her... He _loved_ her!

Scabior halted, grimacing like a baited tiger, and she saw in his face the real smouldering rage of his thwarted purpose. Jaw clenched, muscles tensed, the veins in his neck throbbing, he breathed deeply in though his nose, as if fighting to control himself. After a moment, he appeared to have won the battle. He leant down and spoke in a rough whisper, "I'll 'ave what I'm owed sooner or later, beautiful, and I'll be charging ya interest too. That's a promise." He ran his tongue up the track of tears on her cheek.

Then he turned his head and addressed the tall figure standing in the torn entranceway. "Aw'right, Vinny," he said, with a casual nod of salutation. "Come to join in, 'ave ya, mate?" He released his grip on Eva, pushed himself off her, and stood up.

Eva remained prone on the bed, frozen by an icy wave of confusion and horror that was welling up as she realised the two men knew each other. She heard Vincent say, "Outside, Scabior – now."

"Oh, that's nice, isn't it?" returned Scabior sarcastically. "Thrown out of me own tent, am I?"

"I'll speak with you later."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Scabior grabbed his coat and headed for the ripped exit-way. As he sauntered outside, the Snatcher added, "... You tell your old man I expect a bonus for this one. And she _ain't_ gonna to be cheap."

There was a heavy swishing of material as Vincent used his wand to repair the torn canvas. After a moment of silence, she heard him approach the bed, "Eva..." he said softly. "It's okay, he can't hurt you now."

She stared glassily up at the tent roof, her heart as heavy and cold in her chest as a lump of granite. "...Who _are_ you?" she whispered.

Vincent did not answer. He reached down and pulled her up into a sitting position. She didn't fight him, but her body was rigid, unresponsive.

"Listen, Eva..." His voice was sincere and serious, edged with a gently pleading note. "It's true that I'm not who you think I am... but I know that I care for you... that I love you..." He drew her close to his chest, like a parent trying to placate an infant, his hands stroking her hair back from her forehead. "When you disappeared I thought I was going insane. I was so angry and just – confused... but I couldn't get you out of my head, how you looked at me when you left – your eyes – so full of pain..."

She remained inflexible, repelling his embrace. Her lips were numb, her voice expressionless, as she spoke. "Just tell me who you really are, Vincent Lacland. If that even is your name."

"Please, Eva, you don't understand –"

"No, I don't. I don't understand. Are you a Snatcher, then, "Vinny" – ? Are you going to try and rape me, just like your b-best friend Scabior?"

Vincent's face went ashen. "He's not my friend, Eva," he said. "And I would _never_ hurt you."

Eva pulled away from him and stumbled shakily to her feet. "What the hell is he then?"

Vincent hesitated, took a breath. "...He's my employee."

She stared at him, uncomprehending. The word seemed almost foreign, unregistered in her vocabulary. Employee – what did that mean? Suddenly everything seemed inverted, contorted, the world was nauseatingly deformed, and Eva felt bile rise in her throat. She half-staggered to her knees, doubling over, retching.

She heard Vincent murmur, "Oh my god," – but when she felt his arms encircle her she reeled away from him. "Don't touch me!" she hissed.

He moved away, sensing she was on the verge of hysteria. "Please, just hear me out, Eva," he said, his voice determinedly, almost doggedly calm. "Remember I once told you I worked in recruitment? – Well, that is true. I work, indirectly, for the Ministry, helping to source and hire personnel... the type of personnel that they don't like the wizarding public to know too much about."

Eva flinched. "Saul..." she whispered.

"Saul Lacland is my father," he admitted bluntly. "Part of his cabinet duties include the organization of these more... confidential administrative divisions. Essentially, I work for him."

She nodded mechanically. Of course, it all made sense. The world had stopped its sickening undulations, and now an endless, dark plain of clarity stretched throughout her mind. They looked so similar, the black hair, the sharp features, the tall stature... neither had spoken of other family members... they were living under the same roof…

But why? Why the pretence?

Of course she knew the answer. Her initial suspicions had been correct – Vincent was there merely to draw her out, get information on the Resistance. If he had been introduced as Saul Lacland's son, she would never have trusted him.

She _should_ never have trusted him.

She wondered why she hadn't done any real research on the Laclands – why she'd stupidly taken them at face-value... Was it because her parents had entrusted her to their care? – No. She had suspected from the beginning that Saul probably had a double motive for helping her. …The fact was, she hadn't _wanted_ to see. She had willingly, blindly fallen for Vincent: she had preferred to believe a beautiful fiction than to discover the ugly truth.

"So, what happens now?" she said dully.

"I'm taking you home, Eva," said Vincent, sounding surprised at the question. "Nothing has changed –"

"EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED." It was a ragged cry of despair. "Do you think I can just pretend this never happened – that I can go on living with you, and – and – _loving you_ – when I know it's all a lie?"

"It's not a lie, Eva... I love you, too – that is the only truth that matters!"

She shook her head vehemently. "_No._ That is the only truth that _doesn't_ matter. That is the only truth that screws up and messes with all the other, _more important,_ truths!"

"I don't understand you," said Vincent. "It's just a job –"

"It's _not_ just a job! It is a belief, Vincent! _A_ _belief!_ …" She stared at him, incredulous that he didn't see. "Don't you get it? What _you_ think is right, I _KNOW_ is wrong! No – not, just wrong: – it's _evil_."

It was like she had spat on him. His eyes blazed, and for a moment he looked like Scabior: that same contemptuous, incensed expression suffusing his features. There was a brief, heavily-laden silence, then in a cold voice, he said "You're a self-righteous bitch, sometimes, Eva – did you realise that?"

She was too shocked to answer.

"How dare you judge me?" he continued roughly, emerald eyes glittering with anger. "Remember that time you said you couldn't understand why muggles fought over their religions? Why they couldn't just respect each other, and live in peace? This is no different, Eva. You've taken _your_ side, and now you think you're better than anyone else who thinks differently." He turned away from her. "– You're a hypocritical little fool," he muttered.

_It isn't the same! _she thought furiously – but even though she _knew_ he was wrong, that there were a thousand reasons to prove it, she couldn't find the words, she couldn't form the sentences.

He turned back to her, saw the confusion and distress in her face, and his own expression softened. "Come on, Eva – let's not do this. I... I do love you, even if we don't see eye to eye on everything. …I mean, who does?"

She didn't know what to think any more. Her mind was a blank, except for one excruciating, intolerable fact. Two men had tried to hurt her badly, and one of them had succeeded.

Not the man who had attempted to rape her, but the man who had attempted to betray her.


	17. Cigarettes and Alcohol

Scabior lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

_Fuck. He had been __that__ close. That close._

He could still feel the girl's slender body trapped beneath him; could smell her skin, the sweet citrus of her perfume, the metallic scent of her fear. _Twisting and squirming like a fucking eel waiting to get jellied. Biting like one too, the little bitch. _

Scabior inspected his hand. She had drawn blood: there was a semicircle of tooth punctures on his palm.

_Why did she fight him? She knew that she owed him._

He kicked a stone with his booted foot and it clattered into the depths of shadowy forest undergrowth.

_The boys had brought her to him in a right state. Face and clothes covered in blood – they said she'd knocked herself out with a stunning charm and gashed her head on the way down. She had looked so pitiful, all limp and small and messed-up. But the boys hadn't touched her – they knew better than that. They knew she belonged to him._

Scabior unscrewed the top of his hip flask and slugged a mouthful of whisky.

_He hadn't wanted to hurt her, not really – not seriously, anyway. Punish her a bit, yes. Make her pay her debt, definitely. ...But not really hurt her._

_He'd even cleaned her up, healed the gash, changed her out of the blood-spattered clothes. He could have taken his dues right then, but somehow it took the fun out of it, if she wasn't awake to enjoy it. Which she would do, if she'd just relax and accept it._

_None of his other birds ever had a problem with him – and that included a fair share of squeamish first-timers too. Some of them literally begged him for it. ...What was the fucking matter with the silly bitch?_

He took another draw on his cigarette, a second swig from the flask.

_Damn, had she screamed. He'd never heard such a bleeding racket. Somehow it had enraged and excited him beyond anything he'd ever known. It made him want to crush the fight out of her, to shut her up, to make her submit to him. Fuck, he was getting hard again just thinking about it._

He took another hit of whisky, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

_Eva Bowen, blood-traitor._

_Thought she was too good for him, was that it? _

_Cosying up with Saul Lacland in his bleeding Maida Vale palace. He knew what those rich pure-blood twats in the Ministry thought of him, that they looked down their posh noses at one of their own earning an honest living by getting his hands a bit dirty... _

_And now Vincent sodding Lacland was trying to muscle in on the action._

Scabior flicked away the butt of his cigarette and reached for a replacement.

_He was a right tosser, that Vinny. Prancing around, pretending like he was everyone's bleeding mate, but really he was just a fucking tea-leaf, taking other people's rightful property._

_A jumped-up, over-privileged, cocky little fucker of a thief._

_...Well, he'd be having words with Saul, that much was certain. He'd be letting that oily bastard know exactly what he thought about his prick of a son stealing his catch – literally – out from under him._

Scabior watched the shadows moving inside his tent, although he couldn't hear what was being said through the wall of charms. It didn't exactly appear to be a happy reunion. _So, the sap-headed ponce hadn't told her what he did for a living. Good luck digging himself out of that hole. It looked like the girl would be keeping her precious purity to herself a little while longer... _

Scabior grinned to himself at this, then took a last slug of whisky, a final draw of his cigarette. He headed over towards a certain row of tents at the back of the camp. _Where the pussy was willing and even grateful. Where, more often than not, they didn't charge him for his patronage._

He threw one last glance back at his own tent, and momentarily savoured an enticing image that surfaced in his mind… _The girl pinned under him on his bed, the shirt she was wearing – his shirt – pushed up over her pretty little tits, screaming blue bloody murder while he gave her a right hard seeing to..._

He sauntered inside the nearest tent. "Evening, girls," he said. "Which one of you lovely ladies feels like polishing my wand tonight?"

_The game had shifted. Before, he wanted to have her. Now h__e had to have her. _

_It was a matter of principle. __No-one had ever dodged out of his custody before. No-one had ever refused his advances before. Eva Bowen had done both, twice. Twice. _

… _Actually, it was even simpler than that. _

_He had to have her because he was a Snatcher, and Eva Bowen – blood-traitor – was his catch._


	18. The Deeper Game

"Do you want a drink?" Vincent asked, his voice studiedly natural, though Eva could hear the strain behind it.

"Yes," she replied coldly. "I'll have a pint. Of Scotch."

Vincent grimaced, but did not reply. He opened the antique drinks cabinet and took out two tall glasses and a crystal decanter of a dark honey-coloured liquid. She had noticed before that he preferred to mix and serve spirits by hand.

He poured a double-shot and handed it to her, and without a word Eva tilted her head back and swallowed the contents in one gulp. The fiery liquid burned her throat and brought tears to her eyes, but she merely handed the glass out to Vincent to refill it.

His mouth drew down slightly, but he complied.

They had apparated back to Saul's mansion, to the wing of the house he had disposed for her use. The lounge was dark, illuminated only by distant city lights and a rising pale moon. Neither of them made a move to switch on a light. It was as if the shadows acted as a buffer between them, between the agonizing tension of their hostility and longing.

Eva finished the second glass of whisky and welcomed the seeping warmth which dulled the pain and thawed the ice that had settled in her veins. She sank down into a deep leather recliner and shut her eyes.

She was drowsy – exhausted, in fact.

The stupefying charm had weakened her badly, and all the rest – the see-sawing emotions – her harrowing attack by Scabior, her relief at being rescued, then the crumbling, crushing realisation that her lover and rescuer was her nemesis, her enemy... It was like being saved from falling down a black abyss, only to realise that throwing yourself in might just have been the least painful option...

She jumped at Vincent's touch, and her eyes flew open. He was kneeling before her, reaching out his hands to cup her face gently. Before she had time to react, he leaned in and softly kissed her mouth.

At first she was shocked, paralysed. The memory of their recent ardent embraces seductively sifted into her mind, and her body ached to respond to him, to forget everything and let passion take over... But then pointed shards of memory stabbed through – words, his words, cruel words _– spy – traitor – self-righteous bitch – hypocritical little fool – _and she twisted away from him, crying out in angry protest. "Get off me! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Immediately he let her go and backed off. "I'm sorry," he muttered, turning away.

"Don't worry about it," she snapped waspishly, "I'm getting quite used to being attacked by aspiring rapists. It happens to me all the time."

She could see his shoulders stiffen at her words. She knew she was being unfair, even vicious, but she didn't care – she _wanted_ to hurt him, as much as he had hurt her.

"For fuck's sake, Eva," he said in a low, trembling tone, "do you have to lay it on so thick? I've told you I love you, I've said I'm sorry – what more do you want?"

"You don't love me," she said flatly. "You want to _manipulate_ me. It isn't really the same thing. Maybe if you look up "love" in a thesaurus, that might give you a more comprehensive idea about the actual meaning -"

"Jesus, Eva, just stop it, will you?!" Vincent's voice was now aggrieved. He turned back to her, his eyes flashing angrily. "I _do_ fucking-well love you. Do you think I would have risked seriously displeasing my father and pissing off my best Snatcher to come and get you, _if I didn't love you?"_

"Oh, wow!" she said shrilly, "_thanks_ for preventing your favourite employee-of-the-month from committing a serious sex crime, that is so incredibly considerate of you!"

Vincent shook his head resignedly. "You don't let up, do you? What do you want me to do? Beg you for forgiveness?"

Eva didn't answer immediately. The kernel of a desperate idea was evolving and boundlessly growing, an idea that, if manifested, could potentially save or entirely ruin... everything. Her friends. Her fate. Her heart.

In an strange, altered tone – a tone she barely recognised: cool and crystal clear – she said, "I want you to prove it."

Vincent frowned. "Prove what?"

"Prove that you love me. I want proof."

Vincent winced slightly, as if he knew he was letting himself in for something he would almost certainly regret. "Alright," he said slowly, determinedly. "How?"

"I want the top ten black-listed names that your Snatchers are going after."

Vincent's jaw muscles tightened. "I can't do that, Eva. I don't actually _know_ that."

"Your father knows it."

"... You are asking the impossible."

Eva gazed levelly up at him. "Fine. You might as well take me back to the Snatchers, since you don't actually give a fuck about me. ...I'm sure Scabior won't mind if you want to watch him raping me. You two being so close, and all."

Vincent's face was chalk-white, his voice hoarse, as he spoke. "How can you say such a thing?"

But Eva was beyond caring. "You give me those ten names, or I'll go into your father's office myself and upturn every drawer, open every single scroll and memo until I find what I'm after."

"You're not serious."

"Oh, I am, perfectly," she replied calmly. "You'll know better than I how well he'll react... Who knows, maybe _he'll_ try to rape me too. It seems to be quite a theme among you people." With that she jumped up from the chair and marched towards the door.

She heard Vincent swear under his breath, and by the time she reached the threshold he was there before her, blocking her way. "Wait," he said. "I'll do it." His eyes glistered resentfully, and his expression was a little brutal.

Eva stared at him frankly, almost accusingly. "Do you mean that?"

He ran a hand through his short coal-black hair. "...Yes. I mean it. I'll have the information for you tomorrow morning. But that's all. What you do with it is up to you, I'll have no part in it, and it won't ever be repeated. Are we agreed?"

Eva nodded. She realised her heart was thumping wildly. _He does love me_, she thought, and she was taken aback by the soaring elation of her spirit._ He must love me!_

Vincent continued bluntly, "In return I expect _you_ to accept me, to accept my apology, and to agree to our relationship going on as it had before all this_._.. happened." He stared at her antagonistically. "Do you accept?"

Relieved tears stood in her eyes. "Yes," she replied softly.

Vincent grasped her by the arms and pushed her against wall, and he was kissing her again, but this time his mouth was hard and exacting, as if to dispel by sheer force any further defiance or scepticism from her. When he released her she was breathless, flushed... and also disoriented. His kiss had been a little too much like Scabior's, a little too dominating and bruising...

But in the disorder of her mind, one overriding thought prevailed. He loved her. He _did_ love her.

A small, uneasy voice in the back of her mind whispered warningly, _"...or else he's playing an even deeper game than you realise..." _

But after the incapacitating despair she had faced when she had believed his love nothing more than a cruel illusion, she was unable to entertain the possibility that it really could be so.

And so she simply dismissed it.


	19. Father and Son

"Eva, my dear, may I join you? I should like a word."

Saul Lacland stood in the doorway of the library, where Eva lay curled up on the hearth rug, staring into the glow of remaining embers in the great fireplace.

She had been thinking about Vincent. He had hardly spoken to her since handing her the promised list of names that morning. She'd left him in the lounge after dinner, stony-faced and downing shots of tequila.

Somehow, the day had gone all wrong. She had found she just couldn't relax, couldn't act naturally around him – that her love for him by no means counter-balanced her new, innate lack of trust in him. He had taken it badly, becoming more and more sullen and hostile as the hours went by. The tenseness between them had been tangible, almost painful, and sensing some kind of inevitable confrontation, she had finally pleaded a headache, and removed to the library.

The sudden appearance of his father was extremely unwelcome – not least because she still had the list folded up in the pocket of her jeans.

Saul Lacland did not wait for Eva to grant her permission – he had already softly closed the door behind him and advanced to take a seat nearby.

She could not bear to look at him, knowing now what she did about his real role in the Ministry's new regime: the destructive power he wielded over so many innocent lives. She sat up and deliberately turned her back on him, fully facing the fire.

Her skin crawled as she heard his pleasant, velvetine voice. "My dear, I'm afraid I have been a less than attentive host over these many weeks that you have been staying with us. I hope you have found everything to your satisfaction?"

Eva did not reply, and it did not seem as though he expected her to. He continued smoothly, "I have noticed that my... er, _nephew_... is very much taken with you – and I can understand why. You are a very charming girl. A very charming girl, indeed."

Eva felt a wave of nausea. How much did he know that _she_ knew? In a rather unsteady voice, she said, "Mr Lacland, I'm not feeling very well. Do you mind if I go to bed?"

There was a brief pause, and then, as if she hadn't said anything at all, he carried on, "In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if your charms had, shall we say, 'turned his head' somewhat. He has always been susceptible to a damsel in distress... especially an excessively pretty one like yourself."

Eva had heard enough, and she clambered to her feet to face him. "What do you actually want, Mr Lacland?" she asked tersely. "If there's something specific you have to say to me, please just get on with it."

He smiled suavely, handsomely, and Eva was shaken to see the striking similarity between father and son. "Very well, my dear. Since you are inclined to disdain niceties, I shall be blunt. ...I ask whether you find all to your satisfaction, because it has been lately brought to my attention that you felt sufficiently compelled to leave us yesterday."

He raised his brows enquiringly, and Eva did not deny it, though a knot of anxiety twisted her stomach.

He pursed his lips briefly, then continued. "I ask you now whether you remember our very first interview, and the terms we discussed pertaining to your living under my roof."

"I remember," said Eva shortly.

"Very good. And now the pivotal question. Do you admit to breaking with those terms yesterday?"

Eva's heart thumped. Behind his mild expression was a dangerous watchfulness. She had to be careful how she answered. "...I admit that I momentarily _forgot_ the terms," she said. "I was feeling very upset and... homesick. I just wanted to visit my house again. It was really nothing more than that."

"I see," he replied lightly. Although she was standing and he sitting, Eva could not quell a horrible feeling that he was somehow looming over her. Then he said, "And did you know that your _momentary forgetfulness_ has resulted in my being forced to pay out a not inconsiderable sum of compensation to certain interested parties?"

Her brows shot together. "Yeah well, I didn't exactly expect to be kidnapped by Snatchers the minute I got home," she said tetchily. "But _you_ might know more about that than me."

Saul's mouth was drawn into an impassive line. "I am not at liberty to comment on that, Eva. However... I take your meaning."

For a few moments he seemed to be deliberating, and Eva tried to look as indifferent and unselfconscious as possible. Then he gave a brief nod. "Very well. It seems to me that a mere lapse of judgement need not result in any drastic consequences. You may continue with us for the time being."

He stood up, and Eva suddenly felt very insignificant beside his imposing, immaculately-dressed figure. "However," he added, "I may not be quite so charitable, were such an episode to be repeated. Do _you_ take _my_ meaning?"

"Perfectly," said Eva sourly.

"I am very glad to hear it." He smiled again, graciously, then in an off-hand manner remarked, "May I also remind you that any behaviour deemed counter-productive to my own cabinet duties will incur the severest possible repercussions."

He reached out his hand and tilted Eva's chin up, inspecting her face in the low light. She gritted her teeth and submitted to his scrutiny, though she detested his touch.

Suddenly he stooped over her and his hand slipped down to her encircle her neck, his thumb lightly pressing her throat, in a gesture as absolutely sinister as it was delicately administered. His other arm gathered her closely against him and he leant to murmur in her ear. "Do not attempt to trifle with me, Eva, and do not attempt to influence or impose upon _my_ _son_."

Eva was petrified, rooted to the spot with terror and abhorrence. Saul continued in his purring, hypnotic voice, "The sum paid for your release is by no means irrecoverable. The... _merchant..._ involved has made it clear he would much prefer the goods to the gold."

His thumb stroked her neck, and Eva was almost consumed by her frightened loathing of him. "Am I making myself quite clear?" he said softly, tenderly.

"Yes," she whispered. His soft-spoken intimidation was almost as unendurable and overwhelming as Scabior's overtly sexual aggression: she was hot, stifled, her heart was racing and she felt herself starting to hyperventilate – felt she would pass out with anxiety if he didn't release her from his vile, encompassing embrace.

But then he straightened up, stood back, and once again his hand was lightly tilting her chin. "Very charming," he said. Then he turned and elegantly glided out of the room, his long black hair and expensive robes fluttering silkily behind him.

Gasping loudly, Eva put her hand shakily up to her throat. It seemed to burn where he had touched her, and she had broken out in a cold sweat. Whether he suspected she was up to something or not – the warning was unmistakable.

Eva clutched the piece of paper in her pocket, reassuring herself it was still there, wondering just how she would be able to pass on the information without bringing down Saul Lacland's wrath upon her head.


	20. Ecstasy and Agony

Eva sent the information to Arielle.

She hadn't wished to involve her sister, but who else could she really trust?

She copied the list of names out in a kind of code her sister had invented before she'd started school, which she had used to send Eva "secret" messages to Hogwarts. Eva never thought she'd have to employ it in earnest, but she couldn't think of any other way to safeguard against disaster, should it fall into the wrong hands. After all, most secrecy charms could be broken.

It felt almost silly, using a child's made-up cryptogram to protect something so important, but then again, sometimes the simplest ideas were the most effective. The note was brief – to relay the message to one of her professors, whichever was the most trustworthy, someone sympathetic to or affiliated with the rumoured Order.

Every day she scanned the paper for any mention of the people whose names were on the list, any signs that the information had been passed on. And every day she nervously wondered if Saul Lacland would discover the scheme, and the part his son had played in it... But as the days passed, she began to gradually relax. Surely if anything were found to be amiss she would know of it by now?

She _needed_ it to work… there was so much riding on it. She had convinced herself that if she could just help these people, she could justify staying with Vincent. She could justify loving him.

Not that he was making it easy for her.

For several days now, he had continued moody and churlish, making it clear he felt she had reneged her side of their deal. The warm, magnetic field of trust that had once bound them together, had now turned into a frigid, glassy wall of separation.

She ached for his touch, his smile. She felt if he would only reach out, break down the ice, she would be able to meet him there at the threshold, ready to lay her heart at his feet. ...But instead he pushed her further away, and accordingly she shrank back inside her shell.

Eva surreptitiously looked up at him from her book. They were in the lounge and had exchanged precisely zero words that morning. He was leaning back on a brocaded couch with arms crossed and his legs stretched out, his head tilted back towards the ceiling. His full lips were compressed in a sullen line.

"What?" he suddenly said.

Eva jumped, startled. "Huh?"

He sat forward and fixed his eyes on her. "You were looking at me. What do you want?"

"N-nothing," Eva stammered. "I didn't mean to –"

"You didn't mean to," he repeated her words sarcastically. He leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling again. "Well, if there's anything you want to, you know, _use_ me for... just let me know. Otherwise, kindly quit staring at me."

Eva could not reply. Her cheeks burned with the injustice of his words. She was not just 'using' him! She _loved_ him!

Her limbs felt leaden as she got up and left the room. Wearily she made her way to her bedchamber and slowly shut the door. _What's the point?_ she thought. A fragment of song drifted into her mind. ..._You're nobody til somebody loves you..._

Well, her 'somebody' was falling out of love with her, and she was fast becoming nobody again.

She was cold, shivering. She needed to relax.

Eva padded through to the en-suite and ran the bath, hot and brimming. She found a bottle of bath salts and tipped the whole thing in. The salts fizzled and bubbled, emitting a pleasant, calming aroma of rose petals. She stripped off her clothes and stepped into the water. It was a little too hot, but she didn't care. She slid down into the comforting depths and closed her eyes.

She lay there for some time, trying to rid everything from her over-wrought mind. She was tired with the persistent hollowness of her heart, and drowsy from the heat of the water. ..._Maybe she should just sink down under the seductive surface and let the darkness take away her..._

_...No. She mustn't think like that. She had Arielle to look after, her friends to try and help._ With a groan Eva sat up and forced herself to clamber out of the bath. She didn't bother towelling herself dry, just wrapped a thick white bath-robe around her and moved back through to the bedroom.

She lay down on top of the quilt and buried her face in one of the deep, downy pillows. Almost immediately she dropped into a deep, numb, blanketing slumber.

She didn't know for how long she slept, but she was brought back to awareness by the pleasant sensation of a hand softly stroking her hair.

She opened her eyes to find Vincent beside her on her bed. He seemed to have been watching her, and a smile – a wide, breath-taking smile, just like the one that she had dreamed of for so many nights – curved his mouth sensually, beautifully.

He was already leaning down to kiss her.

After the days and days of fraught, hostile tenseness, Eva craved his touch: she was as powerless to resist him as to resist breathing. For a brief moment she was rigid... then she simply melted. She lay back, let the tension flow out of her, and felt her body warm up and mould to his like wax.

As he kissed her, he loosened the knot of her bathrobe and peeled it away from her. He said nothing, just ran his hands over her body, stroking, comforting, his lips pliant yet firm, his tongue gently probing and requiring.

His hand slid down and down, his fingers working their way between her thighs, and she gasped as he manoeuvred them subtly against her, drawing her into a place of perfectly exquisite sensations. His kiss mimicked his touch, with each light stroke of his fingers he flicked his tongue deeper inside her mouth, suggestive of intentions that made her flustered with panic and frenzied with anticipation.

His mouth left her lips, travelling downwards, trailing with leisurely deliberateness over the curves and concaves of her body, making her quiver, inflaming her with desire. His fingers were still measuring out a delicious metronomic rhythm on her, stopping only when finally he bent his head to replace them with his tongue.

She cried out, in pleasure, in protest, covering her face with her hands. Her shyness, her inexperience kindled an insecure, abashed shame – but she was incapable of fighting the intense, saturating ecstasy that was washing over her.

The pressure, the rhythm drove her almost wild, she threw her head back, moaning, gasping – and suddenly it became too much, too intense – she tried to push him away, grabbed at his hair to pull him from her, but he was strong and determined, he ignored her feeble resistance and carried on, and on, and on.

A shattering star-burst of pure sensation and energy coursed through her, every nerve in her body vibrating and every muscle contracting. She cried out aloud as it overtook her, her hands grasping, entwined in his hair, pressing herself unreservedly up to him.

She lay there, panting, shaking, mortified to feel tears of relief flowing down her cheeks – yet sublimely, ludicrously happy.

Vincent pushed himself up to lie beside her, cradling her against him, smiling into her hair, his hand lazily caressing her.

"Did you manage to send that list of names?" he murmured eventually.

Still dizzy with pleasure and disbelief, Eva gave a languid nod. "Yeah, I did. Thank you. I don't know if I said thank you before. I'm hoping we'll see the effects before too long."

"...What's going to happen with it?"

She sighed drowsily. "Hopefully it'll be passed on to my friends at the Ministry, and they can help organize some kind of escape for those people before it's too late."

Vincent did not reply. He half-sat up, looking over her, at one of the blank walls. His emerald eyes were glinting with a strange two-toned iridescence, like shot material.

Emerald shot with ice blue.

"That what ya needed?" he said, as if to someone invisible standing there.

Everything seemed to go into a strange, colourless, disjointed slow-motion, as if Eva were watching an old black-and-white film. There was a low roaring sound in her ears.

She heard a murmured incantation, some kind of revealing charm.

And then Saul was standing there, statuesque and elegant, a vapid smile on his face. At his feet, curled up on the floor, watching her with the blank expression of one fettered under the spell of an Imperius Curse, was Vincent.

"That is quite sufficient, thank you, Scabior," Saul replied. He fixed his eyes on Eva. "What a delightful... performance, my dear. Remarkably erotic, if one cares for such things."

The low roaring had become a deafening, high-pitched ringing.

Saul addressed the Snatcher once more. "I see you have timed your Polyjuice with admirable precision."

"Yeah, well, I always 'ad a knack with that stuff," said Scabior, his arms still around Eva, but now tensed and ready to restrain her.

He leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Can't deny you liked that, can ya, sweet-'eart? – Guess you owe me another favour now, don't ya?" He squeezed her against him, and gave her a smack of a kiss on her cheek.

Aloud he added, "You know, it never ceases to a-ston-ish me just 'ow quick a bird will spill the beans when she's 'ad a fella's tongue up her pussy."

Eva began to scream.


	21. Nightmare

"Assist the young lady into some decent apparel and bring her to my office," said Saul to Scabior. "I shall await you there." He drifted to the door and Vincent staggered to his feet, following obediently, robotically behind.

Eva's piercing scream had died away and now she lay mute and limp. She shut her eyes, shut out the sight of the Scabior's smug grin, but she knew she could neither shut out nor awake from the nightmare into which she had fallen.

Scabior summoned her clothes from the floor of the en-suite and then threw them at her. "Quick as lightning, beautiful," he said, reaching down to jerk her into a sitting position. When she made no effort to move or open her eyes he slapped her cheeks with both hands, lightly, playfully. "Oi! Wakey, wakey, sweet-'eart."

Eva's eyelids flickered open and she stared blankly into Scabior's glittering blue eyes. He still had a loathsome, self-satisfied smirk on his face.

Suddenly, viciously, she aimed a kick at his groin.

She missed. – Her foot hit his thigh, but Scabior still emitted a grunt of surprised pain. He grabbed her shoulders, flipped her over and pushed her roughly face down onto the bed. He gripped a fistful of hair and twisted it painfully. "That ain't a nice way to treat a bloke who just went down on ya, is it, darling? – But you always was an ungrateful little spitfire, wasn't ya?"

He gave her another shove into the bed for good measure, then stood up, releasing her. "You better get your kit on right sharpish, my girl. His fucking majesty is awaiting us, and we've got some very pressing _business_ arrangements to discuss."

Numbly, woodenly, Eva sat up and began to pull on her clothes – her underwear, her shirt, her jeans. She leaned down to slip her feet into a pair of trainers beside the bed, and a small piece of paper fluttered out of her jeans pocket and down in front the Snatcher's boots. He bent down to retrieve it.

"Well, well, what's this, then?" he murmured, his eyes flickering over Vincent's hand-written list of names. "Ah – a lovely piece of in-crim-in-ation."

"Give that back to me," Eva hissed furiously. _Why had she kept it? – She should have destroyed it as soon as the message had been sent to Arielle. _

"I think I'll 'ang on to it for now, thanks very much," Scabior returned politely. He made an elaborate display of tucking it into his waistcoat pocket. Then he leaned over, grabbed Eva by one wrist and hauled her to her feet. "Come on, girly. Time to face the music."

He tugged her along with him, hoisting her roughly up whenever she stumbled or lagged, and she realised he was navigating the building with the assured familiarity of a frequent visitor.

The door to Saul's office stood open, and as they neared it Eva began to panic.

She suddenly pulled away, twisting out of Scabior's grip momentarily, but as she threw herself backwards he hooked his boot around her foot and she plummeted to the floor. "Don't make me go in there," she gasped pleadingly, as he dragged her back to her feet. "Please, Scabior, I don't want to go in there!" She could hear her voice rising shrilly, but she could not control it, she could not quell the sickening dread, the hopeless terror - "DON'T MAKE ME GO IN THERE!" she shrieked.

Scabior held her securely with one arm and raising the other, he delivered her a hard, ringing slap. Then he pulled her against him and stood there, holding her still, waiting for her to calm down and regain her self-control. "You gonna come quiet now, or do I 'ave to summon a muzzle?" he said at last.

Although her cheek stung from his hit, it had broken her hysteria, and Eva replied in a subdued voice, "No. I'll come quietly."

"Don't make things too easy for yourself, do ya?"

She gave him a look of pure contempt. "I can't help it," she said bitterly. "Life keeps strewing complete bastards in my path."

Scabior grinned down at her. "I'd keep ya scorn-flakes to yourself, darling. Right now there ain't much standing between you and a very – long – stretch in Azkaban." He began to propel her forwards to the office, and this time she did not resist, though her legs felt like jelly.

Saul was sitting at his mahogany desk, reading through some papers as if it were simply another day at the office. He did not look up as they entered, but made a brief, directive hand-gesture to a chair.

Scabior thrust her down onto it and bent over her warningly. "Don't try any of your usual stupid tricks, sweet-'eart," he said in a low voice. "I don't like scraping up body parts very much." He moved back to the door, and drew it closed, then leaned against it, arms crossed.

"Where is Vincent?" Eva demanded. Her terror of Saul was so absolute that she could only be aggressive, assertive – or go to pieces.

Saul finished reading the document he had in hand, then filed it carefully away. Then he picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet, stood up and came around the desk to stand before her. He proffered the newspaper to her. "Observe the front-page headline, my dear," he said smoothly.

Eva took the paper in her unsteady hands, and read the main article.

**"****MINISTRY LEAK BLAMED FOR SPATE OF MOST-WANTED TIP-OFFS!"**

Underneath ran the text,_ "A source at the Ministry has alleged that the identities of some of the country's most notorious dissidents and criminals-at-large have been leaked, with potentially devastating consequences to the Ministry's campaign to apprehend the felonious individuals responsible for the ongoing denigration of wizarding society's moral framework... "_

"I d-don't understand," she stammered, confused. "I read the paper this morning, and it was nothing like this –"

"You are reading tomorrow morning's issue," said Saul blandly. "It is a merely a proof copy. The print has yet to run."

"Oh." Her mouth was dry. She hated him standing over her, wondered if she could try aiming a kick like she had at Scabior – but then she remembered the Snatcher's warning. Scabior was a man capable of cruelties, but something deep inside her had always told her that Saul Lacland was a man capable of atrocities.

"I believe we discussed, not five days ago, what might be expected to happen if you were to meddle in my affairs," he said. "I am most... disappointed."

"Really?" said Eva cynically. "I thought you'd be over the moon. You wanted to trap me all along, so I really don't know why you would feel remotely disappointed." She glared up into his eyes. "In fact, why don't we all just crack open the bubbly?"

Saul smiled in his usual beguilingly handsome manner. "Your witticisms are always piquant, my dear, I do find them so very entertaining..." He extracted his wand from his robes and rested it lightly against her temple. Then slowly, deliberately he drew it downwards, following the line of her cheekbone.

Eva hadn't realised she was screaming until she finally stopped. She could feel the warm, heavy viscosity of her own blood flowing down her face and neck, soaking into her shirt collar. She tried to bring her hands up, but found they were somehow fixed to the arms of the chair.

Saul's smile never wavered as he watched her writhing in pain. His eyes were affable, his expression mild. "Now, my dear, I think perhaps you may save your charming impertinences for another time."

Eva's eyes were riveted to his in absolute terror, in revulsion. Gaspingly she whispered, "Where is Vincent? What have you done with him?"

Saul stood back and breathed a sigh. "You need not worry about my son and heir, Eva. I am fairly convinced that watching another man – ah, _pleasuring_ you will have cured him of his... temporary infatuation."

His words were like a second slicing wound to her. She heard a strange, eerie, high-pitched whimpering sound, and confusedly thought, _There is someone else here – I can hear someone being tortured..._

And then she realised it was coming from her own throat.


	22. Gambits

Saul Lacland pressed his wand against Eva's other cheek, and her whining cry died on her lips, as a new wave of terror washed over her. She arched away from him, but he merely bent further over her, his glossy black hair spilling over her shoulders, partially sticking to the blood oozing down from her face.

"Eva, I would like to pose some questions to you now, if I may," he said in a civil, mannerly way. "More importantly, I should like to extract some truthful answers from you. ...I have some Veritaserum to hand, however it is not one of the devices of questioning I particularly favour. It is resistible. It is fallible." He lightly stroked her hair back from her face with one impeccably manicured hand. "And you were a top student of Occlumency at school, weren't you, my dear? Oh, yes – I've done my research. A true Ravenclaw to the last. Not particularly gifted at the more... manual aspects of witchery. But splendid, quite splendid at the cerebral disciplines."

He smiled as if they were exchanging the most perfunctory of pleasantries. "...No, for such exceptional cases I find that the application of _pain_ is a far more reliable, more persuasive method_._" He twisted the point of his wand gently and she felt it pierce her skin like a knife-point. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Eva flinched, not for the nasty sting he was inflicting, but in anticipation of the agony to follow. But defiantly, determinedly, she shook her head. "I won't tell you anything."

"They all say that, my dear," Saul replied in a slightly wearied tone. "Some even make quite an heroic display of resistance ...of course, the tolerance threshold varies remarkably... – Averagely speaking, however, the breaking point occurs well before the employment of Cruciatus becomes necessary."

"I admit I leaked the list," Eva said, her voice shaking almost to incoherency. "I admit I persuaded your son to give me the information. Send me to Azkaban – I don't care."

Saul gave a light chuckle. "Come, come, you're a clever girl, Eva. You must know I don't require you to repeat information of which I am already aware. No, indeed. I want the names of your Ministry conspirators. And I intend to get them. All of them."

"I will never tell you."

"I assure you, you will."

There was a cough from the near the door, where Scabior had been silently watching the proceedings. "I 'ope you ain't going to mess my property up too much, Lacland," he growled. "You got your gold back, I want the girl back, as agreed."

Saul turned to the Snatcher with a mildly surprised expression, as if he had forgotten he was present. "You will be compensated for any lasting damage."

"I don't want 'er damaged," Scabior said. "Use the Veritaserum, and 'ave it over with – or give 'er to me. I ain't gonna stand 'ere all day, watching you get your rocks off on butchering 'er to bits."

Saul's eyes narrowed, though his affable smile remained. "I shouldn't think a Snatcher would have much say in the decision making processes of a Ministry cabinet member."

"Neither should I, most usually." Scabior lifted his wand and levelled it at Saul. "But _this_ Snatcher's knows something that _that _Ministry cabinet member is going to want to keep under wraps."

Eva held her breath. A silence, crackling with a tangible electricity, pervaded the space between the two men. Saul murmured, "... Pray, explain yourself."

With his free hand, Scabior took out the hand-written list that had fallen from Eva's jeans, from out of his waistcoat pocket and waved it at Saul. "I'm 'azarding a guess that you don't want your precious Ministry to find out that the leak sprung, not just from your department, but from inside your very own 'ouse... Wouldn't be the best look for ya, now, would it? Not exactly a coup for your PR image, I'm thinking."

Saul's lips went white, though his voice remained smoothly modulated. "You dare threaten me?"

Scabior shrugged nonchalantly. "Look at it more as a business proposal, if it makes ya feel better, mate. I can see what's what. You got no intention of letting that girl go alive. You're gonna cut 'er up into mincemeat, cos she's a liability, ain't she? – Well, she's my property. And I suggest you 'and over my property to me, or things is going to get a little zippy round 'ere."

Saul moved away from Eva and glided back to his desk. She felt as if a strangling noose were released from her neck. He resumed his seat and sat with his fingertips interlaced. His grey eyes were dark almost to blackness. "...I see we're going to have to reopen negotiations," he said blandly. "...Very well, I shall make it simple. Quid pro quo. The girl for the paper."

Scabior's smile was hard. "Done."

Saul paused, tapping his index fingers thoughtfully. Then he said, "Perhaps we may be able to turn this arrangement to one of mutual benefit. ...You will enforce the girl's permanent detention, either in your own custody, or in Azkaban. Meanwhile, if you are able to succeed in harvesting the information I require from her, the reward to you will be considerable."

The Snatcher pursed his mouth, his blue eyes gleaming with a new interest. "How considerable?"

Saul smiled coldly. "That will depend on the expedience of your persuasiveness. The quicker you deliver, the higher the reward. Are we agreed?"

"Yeah, nearly," Scabior sauntered over to Eva and pulled her to her feet. His wand was still pointed at Saul threateningly. "One more thing, though. I don't want to see that ned of a son of yours in my camp again. Any future dealings is going to 'appen in Nocturn Alley from now on. Keep 'im on a leash. This girl is mine, and I don't want 'im charging in like fucking Sir Nonce-alot to steal 'er off me again. Got it?"

Saul dropped his mask of amiable indifference. His eyes were like an angry snake's, his teeth bared like fangs. "Yes. – Now get out of my sight," he hissed.

Scabior laughed, balled the paper in his fist and threw it onto the floor near Saul's feet. "Be lucky, mate," he said chipperly, with typical Cockney swagger.

He tugged Eva to the door, which he opened with a flick of his wand, and they passed into the hallway. Then he half-turned, flicked his wand again, and the door slammed shut with a mighty crash. "Psycho cunt," he muttered.

Scabior took Eva's hand and roughly pulled her down the hallway, out through the tasteful, high-arched atrium entrance, and into the foggy London air of an overcast autumn day.

"Looks like it's just you and me again, girly," he said, as he clasped her against him in readiness of apparation. "You better be on your best be'aviour from now on, is all I can say. Cos I ain't tolerating your constant lip or your silly fucking gambits no more. Ya' hear?"


	23. Celebration

Eva sat on the sofa-chair inside Scabior's tent, numbly trying to make sense of the avalanche of disastrous chain-events which had somehow become the reality of her miserable existence.

She had been bullied, abused, brutalised, persecuted, hurt, betrayed. She had been hunted like prey, treated like a piece of meat, pushed from pillar to post.

And her heart.

Her heart, that she had finally opened up, trustingly exposed, in all its fragility and vulnerability... only to have it ripped, and ripped, and ripped, in cruel successive stages, until she was unsure if there was anything left, other than a bloody, gaping wound... or worse: a blank, hollow nothing.

Where was Vincent now? Was he still under his father's control? Or had he been released, and was now remembering back to what he had seen, there in the bedroom… was blaming her for not realising, for not somehow _knowing_...

Scabior had mended the deep slash on her cheek with a healing spell, then applied essence of dittany. He had knelt in front of her, just like Vincent in that darkened lounge, and applied the tincture deftly, gently, his body leaning possessively over her, his left hand resting with a casual intimacy on her thigh. A barely perceptible curve of his mouth bespoke his self-complacency, his assured confidence of ownership.

She would not meet his eyes, though she felt them fixed on her own, as if he were waiting for her to acknowledge her submission. Her gratefulness.

Eva clenched her teeth. So he regarded her as his lawful property now, did he? Because he had saved her from being tortured. Because he had tricked her into opening her body up to his insidious manipulations. Because he believed that she _owed_ him.

...Well, perhaps they were good enough reasons for some. But not for her.

She would never willingly surrender herself to any man simply because he demanded it, or because he felt entitled to it. She was a free-born witch. She was no man's plaything. She was no man's _property_.

Eva had pretty much accepted that Scabior would carry his point. His physical advantage basically guaranteed it. Her body was at his disposal – but not her mind. Saul had been right about that – about her strength in "the cerebral disciplines." She had a strong mind. Her body and her heart might be weak and conquerable, but her mind was all her own. She would not be subjugated or controlled, she would not be broken.

… After fixing up her face, Scabior had left her there, alone. He didn't say where or for how long he would be gone. So she sat there, in a strange, suspended limbo, contemplating the relentlessly cruel twists of fate, wondering if she had finally arrived at an impassable dead-end.

She looked wearily around the tent. Never had she dreamed she would end up back here again.

Her eyes rested on the large, dome-lidded wooden chest beside Scabior's bed. She has seen similar ones for sale in the Diagon Alley shops. They were sold with powerful pre-charms, unlockable only by the spoken command of the buyer, and self-locking upon the lid being snapped shut.

Several sudden, connected thoughts flashed through her mind – possibilities, questions, and the smallest grain of a bare, far-flung hope...

She stood up and went over to the chest. Yes, there had been an almost identical one in her Aunt's house. She tugged at the lid, murmured a couple of unlocking charms – but she already knew it would not budge for her.

_…__If she could only manage... somehow... _

_...she just had a feeling about what might be in there..._

Eva heard the muffled thudding of booted feet on the forest floor approaching. She quickly slipped back to the sofa-chair and assumed a defeated, crushed look – though her brain was whirring at a million miles per second.

Scabior entered the tent, looking just as complacent and cocky as when he'd left, brandishing a large bottle of cheap whiskey in one hand. "Ya know what, darling?" he addressed Eva with a wicked grin. "My day keeps getting better and better. I just nicked three mudbloods trying to spring their pals out of detainment. Talk about making my job easy. They keep coming to _us_, like fucking lemmings."

Eva did not immediately reply. She could see he was trying to provoke a reaction. But she had to make him think she had yielded the fight. "That's great," she mumbled, as if too jaded to care.

The brackets around his mouth deepened slightly, as she had noticed they did when he was either suspicious or aggravated – though she wasn't sure which. "Yeah, it is fucking great," he said, moving over to the shabby side-board and bringing down two none-too-clean, chipped tumblers. "And I'm gonna be celebrating tonight." He broke the seal and poured out both glasses nearly full, splashing the liquid carelessly over the bench top. Then he lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a deep swig. He shook his head with a loud exhale of satisfaction, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Grasping a glass in each hand, he sauntered over to Eva and thrust one at her. "_We're_ gonna be celebrating tonight," he said, with a significant smirk.

Eva took the glass wordlessly.

She didn't dare meet his gaze, in case he read her rebellious contempt – or the impatient, irrepressible hope that she might once more get the better of him...

So, he was intending to get drunk. All the better. No doubt he would be an ugly customer with a quantity of liquor inside him – but whatever might give her an advantage, even the smallest one – was worth any initial unpleasantness.

Eva took a small sip of whiskey, and noted Scabior's pleased expression at her apparent submission. He used his wand to summon a crudely-made wooden stool out from under the side-board and then dragged it closely to the sofa-chair. Perched on top of it he was much higher than she, and he sat with one booted foot resting on a low rung, the other stretched out to balance himself against her seat, rubbing against the side of her leg.

She briefly flirted with the idea of suddenly kicking the stool – he would almost certainly fall – but she knew the repercussions could be nasty, without actually getting her anywhere.

_No... slow and steady wins the race_, she thought.

Scabior had already downed half his glass, and she felt his gaze trailing leisurely over her. "You've 'ad quite a day yourself, eh darling?" he said, his eyes gleaming lasciviously. "...That the first time a fella found ya sweet spot?"

She tried to keep her expression wooden, though she felt the blood surge to her face, and a sudden sickening cramp twisted her stomach painfully. She could not yet really face what had happened, she felt she might crack up if she allowed herself to dwell on it. "No," she lied bluntly, hating him for his casual leer, as if it were merely an amusing and brag-worthy exploit, and not the calamitous catalyst for ruining her life, utterly and irreversibly. Unable to stop herself, she angrily spat, "And it wasn't even that great, either."

He laughed. "Ever the little wind-up merchant, aren't ya, beautiful? Don't recall you complaining at the time... although you _was_ making _quite_ a racket." He flicked his tongue over his lips suggestively, mockingly.

Eva felt almost dizzy with nausea. The shame, the rage, the helplessness seemed to curdle her very insides; large dark spots blurred her vision - and for a moment she wondered if she would faint. But she clenched her teeth and forced herself to calm down.

He was watching her closely, his self-satisfied smile still lingering about his mouth. She longed to wipe it off him, and a torrent of insulting words bubbled to her lips. But she swallowed them back down, taking refuge in her drink. She mustn't be drawn into conflict with him – it was too dangerous. In his present mood – smug and facetious – he was more manageable, more so than when his anger or displeasure were piqued.

Scabior knocked back the rest of his whiskey and summoned the bottle over to him. He poured another full glass, then raised the glass up, as if proposing a toast. "Here's to you and me, beautiful," he said. "You and me and a real – long – night – ahead."


	24. Everything and Nothing to Lose

"Can I get something to eat?" Eva asked. "I'm starving."

She was hoping to distract him. Scabior was on his third large glass of whiskey, and she could see the effects of the spirit taking hold, the unfocused glaze in his eyes, the heightened flush overspreading his features. She also sensed the typical oncoming heaviness, the belligerence that so often surfaced with men in drink. She didn't know any man, however good-natured, who was actually _improved_ by alcohol – and Scabior was no mild-mannered renaissance gentleman.

He was a thug who was toying with her. Eventually he would attack.

Scabior took out a packet of cigarettes, knocked one out, and lit up. "Oh, I am sorry, _milady_," he drawled sarcastically, faintly slurring his words. "Was I ne-_glec_-ting your needs?"

He got up off the stool and took an unsteady step back, immediately knocking it over with a dull crash. Drink clutched in his left hand, cigarette dangling rakishly from his lips, he used his wand to compel the overturned object away, sending it skidding into the corner of the tent.

He tucked his wand back in its holster then sauntered over to the side-board and made an exaggerated display of searching through the cupboards and drawers, wrenching them open, rattling them noisily, then loudly slamming them closed again.

Eva felt her heart sink. She could see his playful mood had completely deteriorated, that he was fast becoming hostile and unpredictable.

He turned to her and made a bow of mock-apology. "I regret to 'ave to inform my-ladyship-your-highness that there ain't nothing edible-wise to be found in the vicinity, except for this one and only, particular, single item." He held up a half-empty packet of sugar-nuts, then tipped it upside-down and shook them out all over the floor. Then he stubbed out his cigarette and flicked it down amongst the scattered contents. With a contemptuous flourish, he gestured to the ground. "Be... my... guest," he said sneeringly.

Eva sat still, forcing herself not to react, though her cheeks burned with the insult.

"Ya know what, darling?" Scabior continued, his voice simmering with rising aggression. "Instead of _you_ keepin' on asking _me_ for favours, maybe it's time you started paying some back. Cos I've just about 'ad it with you and your ice-queen routine."

"I'm sorry," Eva mumbled, trying to look genuinely submissive, whilst inwardly steeling herself for the confrontation that seemed inevitable now.

Her show of meekness only seemed to aggravate him further. "That's just the problem, sweet-'eart," he replied with a surly grimace. "I don't think you _are_ sorry. But you will be. You will be, cos I'm going to _make_ ya sorry." He skulled the remainder of his drink in one gulp, then waved the empty glass at her threateningly. "And ya know what else, my darling? I'm still going to get those names out of ya, one way or another. Oh, yeah, and then I'm gonna sell them back to your ponce boyfriend's psycho-cunt father for a nice, big wedge of dosh." He slammed the glass down on the sideboard, making Eva jump. "Because, _sweet-'eart_, that's the score. That's what you owe me, and that's what I'm gonna get. You owe me. You – _owe_ – me."

Eva took a deep breath. She had to get this right, or it was all over. "...I know I do," she replied, her voice small and subservient and shaky. "And I want to show you th-that I _am_ g-grateful to you. You really did save me from that – that monster. I _am_ grateful, Scabior. ...I'm just not very g-good at expressing myself." Her voice broke tearfully. "...And I'm _scared_ of you," she added with a gasping sob.

Scabior's eyes were fixed intently on her face. At first he did not react, but she somehow sensed him relaxing, like a predator deferring the immediate kill. He seemed a little mollified by her words, even pleased by her confession of fear. A hint of a smile touched his mouth, and in a softer tone he replied, "If you'd actually be'ave yourself for once, there wouldn't be nothing to be scared of."

He paced over to her and pulled her out of the seat. The fumes of hard liquor were unpleasant and strong, and she forced herself not to flinch as he bent over her. "But you're always trying it on, ain't ya?" he murmured. "You're always winding me up."

Eva glanced downwards, still afraid her eyes might betray her. It was imperative he thought her completely cured of her rebelliousness. "Please," she whispered, "I'm scared you're going to hurt me." Tears slipped down her cheeks. "Will you b-be nice to me, Scabior? _Please?_ - I'll give you those names – _now_ – I'll do it right now. Give me a scroll and I'll write down every single name. I just d-don't want you to hurt me."

She was thankful that he was drunk, or he surely would have suspected her.

He smiled down at her, his eyes slightly bloodshot and unfocused with drink, but still gleaming with implicit meanings, intentions. His expression was that strange mix of tenderness and brutality which he seemed to sometimes reserve for her, and which always confused and frightened her more than his straight-forward bullying or taunting. "You're a pretty little bird, ain't ya?" he said softly, reaching out to stroke her hair. "I won't 'urt ya, beautiful. I'll be nice to ya... You give me those names and I'll treat ya like a real princess."

She nodded. "Alright," she whispered. "...Thank you."

Scabior's grin was exultant. He stooped down and pressed his mouth to her, his tongue forcing her lips open in a hard, triumphant kiss. The taste and smell of spirits was almost overwhelming, and her recent humiliation at his hands made her almost sick with disgust. Her eyes watered with the sheer effort not to repel him.

Then he let her go and moved away towards the chest.

_Towards the chest._

Suddenly Eva's vision seemed to both narrow and expand, like a wide-angle camera lens focusing with high definition precision, with perfect clarity, with incredible lucidity. She watched him stride – unsteadily but still swaggeringly – over to the chest, mutter the unlocking charm and flick open the lid.

It all happened in a second, a split second, and yet she watched it unfold as if in ultra-slow-motion, as if each infinitesimal particle of time were a small eternity...

Scabior stood with his back to her, and summoned from the chest a scroll, quill and ink, catching them all together, with both hands.

Eva raised her arm. She closed her eyes. _She was a small girl again, her emotions and her magic completely intertwined and inseparable, unpredictable but powerful: difficult to control, impossible to deny. _

Her fingertips tingled, becoming suddenly warm, as if extra blood was surging into them.

_She pictured an object: fully formed, three dimensional, in bright colour, sharply defined. Her power needed no conductor. She was the conductor. She was the power. _

In the lightest, barest whisper, she mouthed the words. "Accio Arielle's Old Wand."

It was in her hands before Scabior even realised anything had happened. He half turned, his eyes met hers, and she saw the flash of comprehension, and then the blindingly pure incandescence of his white-hot rage.

But she had already cast the stunning spell, and she watched him fall.


	25. The Forest

She ran.

The trees in the dim twilight lent her the protection of their falling shadows, and she darted and weaved her way into the denser wooded area, away from the camp, following the maze of concealing darkness.

She was panting with adrenaline and fear – and for a panicky moment she felt as if the whole forest must be echoing with her deep gasps.

She had already tried unsuccessfully to apparate. She realised she must be within a boundary jinxed against escape. Apprehensively, she wondered how far she would have to run before it would finally work.

Scabior had not bothered to re-lock his tent with charms, and she had been able to use a cutting spell to slash through the back canvas wall and climb out. She had seen some figures moving in the half-light, and she stealthily slipped away in the opposite direction.

She leant against a tree, trembling uncontrollably, trying to catch her breath, trying to ignore the fact that the inky shadows reminded her of a horrible, yawning mouth waiting to swallow her whole. She had never liked the dark, but she didn't dare use an illuminating spell yet – not if she were still within the perimeters of the Snatcher's camp.

Again she tried to apparate. Again she failed.

_Oh, god. Oh, please. _She could not afford to be captured by Snatchers.

She could still see the expression on Scabior's face when he realised she had tricked him again – it was indelibly printed in her mind – ashen with rage and disbelief, with the knowledge of her insurrection, her wilful deception. It was this last that made her truly numb with fear. She knew she had pushed him far beyond the limits of tolerance – that he would be out, not just for restitution, but for revenge. She doubted he would hesitate to sell her back to Saul once he was through. There would be no forgiveness, no leniency next time.

There could not, _must_ not, be a "next time."

She pressed on through the thickening undergrowth, wondering if there were things to fear in the forest other than men. Her wand – Arielle's wand – was wielded and ready, although her hand was shaking badly.

She felt heavy, drained. Casting the wandless summoning charm had sapped her strength, both mentally and bodily. She was certain she would not be able to muster the energy to repeat such a feat. She clutched Arielle's wand tighter. She must not lose it, or she would be utterly helpless.

The wand felt strange in her hand – strange yet familiar. She was glad she had recovered it. Arielle would be so happy. Her sister had not really taken to her replacement wand, and had always expressed the hope of recovering her old one. Eva grimaced. She might have failed at everything else, but at least she would be able to grant Arielle this one thing. If she could just escape the forest.

She wondered where her own wand was now – if Saul had destroyed it, or locked it away. If she would ever get to feel its dependable, comforting shape in her palm again...

Suddenly she heard a distant shout. She froze.

Had they discovered Scabior?

_Oh god, no. _

_Had they Rennervated him?_

She didn't know whether to run faster, or curl up into a ball and just hide. ...She could cast a Protego charm around herself, but that would be no use if they _were_ after her – a revealing charm would still lead them to her whereabouts.

She tried to pick up the pace, but in the dark she kept banging into things, stumbling over fallen logs. She was getting no-where fast.

Gingerly she held a cupped hand around the end of the wand and muttered, "Lumos." The point blazed with a white light, so bright that she immediately panicked and Nox'ed it out.

She felt a strange swooping sensation over her head, which made the hairs on her neck stand up.

_She had been marked._

She knew it. They had cast a Revelio charm, and they would be coming for her.

_Just run for it._

Eva plunged headlong into the forest. She had to get out. She _had_ to get out.

She realised she was sobbing as she ran, her tears obscuring her vision even more. _For fuck's sake get a grip! _she admonished herself angrily – but she couldn't seem to think straight anymore, she was just a fleeing creature, a rabbit, a thing of prey, running and running and running for her life.

She crashed into a low-hanging branch, sending her tumbling to the ground, knocking the breath out of her. Gasping, she clambered to her feet. She stood still for a moment, trying to regain her breath, and noticed a tall shadow through the trees, like some kind of house or building.

Slowly she edged towards it, and found herself in a clearing, in the centre of which was the ruins of an old stone building – perhaps once a woodsman's house, or a cottager's dwelling – but now only four ivy-strewn walls of tumbling masonry with a roof of gap-riddled timber. There were no panes in the small, high-placed windows, but a single, solid-looking door still stood, albeit rather crookedly, in its frame.

Eva had no time to think twice. She could sense the Snatchers gaining on her, she could hear the not-so-distant sound of the undergrowth being crashed through, of men's rough voices carrying through the atmosphere. If it were to come to a wand-battle she needed some kind of shield, a protective vantage point from which she could cast her spells without being hit herself.

She ran to the door and tried tugging then pushing on the handle. It opened inwards with a protesting creak. It was almost pitch black inside, and Eva hesitated outside the threshold, her heart thudding wildly. She had to make sure it was safe to enter. _She needed the light. She would have to risk it. _She raised her wand, and she heard her frightened voice hysterically cry out, "L-Lu-Lumos!"

There was a loud bang and the wand burst into flames. She shrieked, and dropped it to the ground, her hand curling as if scorched by an electrical burn. "FUCK!" she cried out in horror. Her stammering panic, her lack of concentration had caused the spell to misfire, _back_fire, and the wand lay split and charred: unusable, irreparable.

"NOOOO!" It was a howl of pure anguish. She screamed it out from the bottom of her lungs, heard it echo through the forest and suspend in the heavy, cold air above.

Eva sank to her knees, her head bent over nearly to the forest floor, sobbing. She had gambled everything, she had lost everything. She had no energy to even stand, let alone think of attempting another wandless spell. She had nothing left. Nothing.

She retched violently, helplessly, covering her head with her arms. She could hear them coming, she could hear the heavy thudding of men's boots running over the ground floor towards her.

They closed in around her, surrounding her.

Her head was still bent down as if in a low kowtow, and at first she could see only the forest floor and the charred wand. Then the black boots of a man slowly approaching.

For a moment Scbaior lightly kicked at the blackened remains of the wand. Then unhurriedly, deliberately, he brought his heel heavily down upon it, grinding it to splinters with a loud crunch. _Arielle will never get her wand back_, she thought disjointedly.

"Incarcerous," he murmured, and Eva felt thick ropes coil around her, binding her arms at the wrists, her legs at the ankles. He stood there for a while, unmoving. Then in a low voice he said, "Alright, boys, you can stroll on. Me and this one 'ave some private business to discuss."

She heard one of them mutter angrily, "When will we get a go at 'er?"

"Yeah," another cut in, "if it weren't for us you'd still be out cold, and she'd 'ave done a runner."

"You'll get a turn soon enough," Scabior growled, crouching down in front of her. He upturned her face to his with both hands and stared down into her agonized eyes. "Every single one of ya will be getting a turn – as many turns as you fucking want." His expression was unspeakably hard, unutterably cruel. "But not tonight. Tonight she's mine." He turned to address the men over his shoulder. "– _Now off you fuck_."


	26. Tarquinius Rises

_**Warning:** the following two chapters "Tarquinius Rises" and "Lucrece Fights Back" are intended for over-18 adult readership only. They include depictions of rape and violence that some readers might find upsetting. Please use your discretion. Also, apologies if you had higher hopes for Scabior. When I started writing this story I didn't know whether he was going to turn out for better or worse. Well. In the end 'worse' just seemed to have become inevitable, so I went with it_.

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Scabior lifted Eva up and half-dragged her inside the derelict building, dropping her down in the middle of the floor.

She lay on her side, her eyes wide and staring, but seeing nothing in the murky gloom. At first it seemed to be pitch black, but after a few moments her eyes began to adjust to the dimness, to absorb the grey light that filtered in through the windows and open door, the holes in the roof and the gaps in the walls.

The floorboards that she lay on were bare and rotting in places, with straggly weeds pushing up through large cracks the near the walls. She could make out a few items of rustic furniture, piled at one end of the room.

She heard Scabior mutter, "Incendio," and a sputtering flame sprang up from a double candle-lamp on the wall, throwing a low flickering light and long distorted shadows about the room.

All was ominously still and quiet. She lay on her side, sensing him standing there behind her, watching her, but unable to see him, to read his expression. She was terrified of moving, or speaking, but she was becoming steadily more terrified of the forbidding, laden silence.

Unable to bear it any longer she began to shakily speak. "Scabior, p-please let me explain –"

But he roughly cut her off. "Shut your mouth or you'll get a kicking."

Suddenly he summoned a chair from the pile of furniture and brought it hurtling towards her, at such a violent velocity that she screamed out and twisted away. It lurched to a stop millimetres from her face, and she gulped with noisy, frightened breaths, screwing her eyes tightly shut, bringing her bound hands up in a belated gesture of defence.

Scabior stooped down and pulled her up onto the chair. She sat awkwardly, painfully, still panting with terror, the restraints on her limbs making it difficult to find her centre of balance.

Although she could still smell the strong alcohol on him, he seemed to be completely sober now. Whether achieved by charm, potion or will-power, she found his disintoxication horribly sinister, as if he had deliberately assumed control of himself, the better to assume control of her.

He began to circle her, each step creaking heavily on the wooden floor. "So, 'ere we go again," he said at length. "I give you a chance, and you take the fucking piss."

She knew better than to reply.

He held his wand in his fist, striking it against his other palm as he paced around her.

"I've tried to be nice to ya," he continued, his voice low but seething with barely-contained rage. "I've tried to bargain with ya. I stopped ya from being sliced up by Lacland. I treated ya good, even after you dodged me twice..." He leaned in from behind her and growled close to her ear, "I – even – went – down – on – ya, made ya moan like a fucking five-quid dollymop slapper."

She tried to pull away but he crossed his arms around her neck and held her tightly against him. "And what do I get?" She could feel his hot breath hot on her neck. "I get two fucking jinxes right in my boat-race. From the world's most ungrateful, uppity little trick of a blood-traitor bitch."

He uncrossed his arms and suddenly reached down to grasp at the top of her shirt with both hands. With one violent motion he rent it apart to the waist, scattering the buttons in all directions. Eva would have cried out, but her throat constricted and she choked out a frightened sob instead.

Scabior moved around to survey her from the front, his expression more sullenly wrathful than leering. His blue eyes reflected the candle-lights on the opposite wall, ice and flame combined. "So. What choice 'ave I got now? I told ya I always persuade my birds, but you won't _let_ me persuade ya. I _can't_ be nice to ya. I _can't_ bargain with ya. I can't fucking trust ya, that's for bleeding definite." He brought out his wand and levelled it at her. "...What the fuck am I gonna do with ya?"

Eva bowed her head momentarily. Then she brought it up, looked him straight in his eyes and cried out in hollow voice, ringing with desperation, "JUST GET ON WITH IT!"

Her words seemed to hang in the air between them. Scabior's jaw tightened, his muscles tensed, and she saw she had incensed him even more – but she didn't care, she just wanted it to be over and done with. She closed her eyes and waited.

"Relashio."

He said it so quietly she would have doubted her ears – except that the bindings on her arms and legs uncoiled themselves and fell to the ground by her feet.

Her eyes flickered open in surprise. Scabior had moved to the door and opened it. "Alright, sweet-'eart," he said. "You can leave."

"W-what?"

"I told ya before, I don't force my birds."

Eva stared at him, doubting, dumbstruck. "You – you're letting me go?" she said, hardly daring to believe it.

Scabior crossed his arms across his chest and looked up at the ceiling, shrugging indifferently. "I said so, didn't I?" His expression was unreadable. His mouth was set: the surrounding brackets manifested no tell-tale twitch to belie his words.

Her heart pounded. _Could he mean it? Really? _She had never been able to read him – he was too volatile, changeable, complex. She believed him to be _capable_ of mercy – and yet, she could not trust in his nature to willingly dispense it.

She stood slowly, shakily up. "You're blocking the door," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

With exaggerated politeness, Scabior bowed and stood aside.

Eva took a deep breath. She had no choice. She steadied her resolve and edged towards the open door – towards freedom. As she neared Scabior's towering figure she was all too aware of his physical advantage. He watched her impassively as she warily approached. She passed him, eyes fixed on the opening. Only when she finally gained the doorway did she realise she had been holding her breath. With a sigh of relief she stepped over the threshold.

She did not make it across.

He lunged forward and grasped a fistful of her hair, dragging her backwards, kicking the door shut with his booted foot. She would have screamed but he clamped his hand over her mouth and began to haul her back into the room.

Desperately, wildly she fought, struggling against him – she managed to bite his hand, and for a moment he let her go – but it was only to jerk her around to face him, to clasp her even more tightly against him. She stumbled, and would have fallen, but he held her up, propelling her bodily forward, and she had a strange disorienting idea that they were locked in some terrible, endless, nightmarish waltz.

Suddenly Scabior grabbed her wrists and pushed her downwards so her knees buckled, and she fell beneath him onto the wooden floor. Now his weight was full upon her, crushing the breath out of her lungs.

He stared down at her, his eyes glittering with a kind of savage triumph, a deep flush spreading over his face. "Didn't think I was going to let you off that easy, did ya darling? After all the strife you caused me? All those tricks you pulled?"

Eva shook her head pleadingly. "No - you're _wrong_ - I never meant to t-trick you -" Her words turned into a frightened cry as he roughly grabbed her jaw.

"Don't lie to me!" he snarled. "You've been gypping me from the moment I met ya, with your cute little stunts, and your lippy sodding backchat... Butter don't melt in your mouth, does it, sweet-'eart? ...I done everything for ya, and you just keep on, _fucking me over_, and_ fucking me over..."_ He half sat up and shrugged off his heavy leather jacket, tossing it to one side. "Well, now it's my turn to fuck _you_ over. And I'm going to give you a - real - nice - taste of your own medicine, my girl..."

Eva began to struggle, to rise up, but he slammed her back down and brought his face so close to hers that she could feel his words on her lips. "You and me, beautiful..." he said, his voice a low rasp, "...we've 'ad this coming from the start."

He crushed his mouth down upon her own, his tongue forcing open her lips, plunging deeply and roughly, and Eva felt she would suffocate: choked by the terrible, overwhelming nearness of him, the sheer ferocity of his brutal purpose.

She managed to bring her hand up to his face and raked her nails down his cheek as hard as she could. With a harsh grunt of pain, Scabior wrenched her hand away. "Ah! – _Bitch._" He pulled back his hand and struck her so hard it made her head reel.

Now Eva was utterly at his mercy, and he showed her none.

His hands roved heavily and bruisingly over her body. She cried out, writhing and struggling, trying to push him off her – but her head was still spinning from his blow, and she fought him in vain. Again, Scabior brought his mouth back to her lips, and then he suddenly reached down, jerked open the row of fly buttons on her jeans and forced his hand inside her underwear.

Eva's whole body convulsed at his touch. She twisted frantically away, but it was to no avail: he was too strong, both in body and will – the more she resisted, the more urgent and unyielding he became. He was causing real pain now, his fingers roughly prodding and stabbing, in complete, deliberate contrast to his earlier skilful, subtle handling of her.

"Stop it, please, _please,_ Scabior," she gasped desperately, "_you're hurting me!_"

To her surprise he did stop. – But the respite was short-lived. He pushed himself up to crouch over her, and began to yank her jeans down. "NO!" she shrieked, kicking furiously. Twice he had to shove her back down to the floor as he pulled the denim past her knees and ankles, the stiff material momentarily catching on her trainers, until finally he managed to peel them completely away. He smiled grimly.

Scabior repositioned himself on top of her, expertly forcing her legs apart with his knees, then he reached down to snap the seams of her underwear.

Eva covered her face with her hands, sobbing. "No – no... please don't, Scabior – _no_..."

"Oh, _yes_," Scabior growled, his teeth gritted with absolute purpose, fumbling with the flies of his trousers. He shifted his weight onto one arm, then guided himself against her, and Eva was consumed with agony, her untried body resisting, repelling him. "Relax, will ya'," he muttered hoarsely in her ear, "...just – stop – fighting me –"

And with a sudden violent lunge, he claimed her.


	27. Lucrece Fights Back

It was a brutal attack, passionless and prolonged.

Scabior meant not only to conquer, but to punish. Every debt owed, every slight registered, every insult perceived would be accounted for: he would mete out his retribution without pity, he would take his revenge in full.

Eva closed her eyes, white and nauseous, scarcely able to breathe, let alone to fight.

The first moment of tearing agony had rendered her entirely passive, almost insensible – yet he showed her no subsequent quarter. He thrust roughly, inflicting intentional pain, driving into her at a pace both measured and relentless, working in silent, gritty concentration, as if determined to protract her ordeal for as long as possible.

And it seemed to go on for a terrible eternity. The pain itself was harrowing, sickening, but worse – somehow, far worse – was the humiliating removal of her power and freedom, the indignity of her abject helplessness, and the degrading sense of being invaded, despoiled. It was almost as if he were branding her as his chattel, making her at once a mere _thing_, and so a mere nothing.

Before, she had feared the pain and the shame. Now, her very soul revolted with outrage. She had not realised, she had not expected to feel such a depth of debasement and powerlessness. ...And yet, over and over in her mind, she kept thinking,_ You knew it would come to this... You always knew it would come to this..._

Finally, finally, Eva registered a change: her assailant's pace quickened, his muscles tightened, and his breathing became heavy and fast. Scabior suddenly grabbed her leg, jerking her thigh upwards over his arm, battering brutally into her. Jagged screams of pain tore from her throat, and he gripped her hair, wrenched her head back, and slammed his mouth down on her lips, stifling her agonized cries. Then with a last savage lunge and a loud groan, he climaxed.

He collapsed on top of her, his body shuddering, heavily panting in her ear. For a while he lay slumped with his full weight crushing her, and she could feel his heartbeat thudding through her own body. The brass studs of his waistcoat dug into her painfully, and she focused on this discomfort, willingly blocking out a much worse one.

At last, he pushed himself off her, and rolled to one side.

Then he began to laugh.

Eva did not move, but gave herself up to the numbness overtaking her. She listened to his laughter as if in a trance._ You always knew it would come to this. _The words went round and round in her head. You_ always knew it would come to this..._

After some minutes, Scabior sat up, adjusting his trousers back into order. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a cigarette and lighter, casually lighting up, although she could see his that his hand shook slightly.

He drew deeply on his cigarette, his breathing gradually slowing, his face regaining its usual pallor, although it remained shiny with sweat. He watched Eva for a while, his sapphire eyes gleaming with a lazy triumph. "You know, they say a girl never forgets her first time," he said at last, in an off-hand, conversational tone. "Every time your ponce boyfriend fucks ya, you'll be remembering me."

Eva stared up at the ceiling, pretending not to hear him. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her anguish.

He continued to watch her, his mouth still curved in an exultant smile, the cigarette dangling raffishly from one side of his mouth. "Remember when we first met?" he continued. "...I told ya that I liked my birds tall and blonde, big tits, no brains – but I think I've got a new type now." He reached down to twirl a tendril of her hair around his fingers. "Wanna know what it is?"

Eva turned her head away from him, unspeaking.

Scabior leaned over and deliberately blew a mouthful of smoke over her. "Pretty little virgins is what I like now... just like you, as a matter of fact, sweet-'eart," he said. "...Yeah, and I also like 'em really smart. – Oh, that _most_ of all." He brought his face close to her and murmured in her ear, "Know why I like _really smart_ girls?"

Eva closed her eyes tightly, shutting him out of her peripheral vision.

"Because," he drawled mockingly, "_really_ _smart_ girls think that they can out-wit Snatchers. And I like to teach 'em just – where – they're – going – wrong." He tilted his head back and took another long draw of his cigarette. "Yeah, that's my type, from now on." He stubbed out the butt of his cigarette on the floor beside him, his smile widening. "My new favourite."

She swallowed a sob of revulsion, and curled herself away from him.

He was silent for some moments, then in an altered, almost rueful voice, he said, "C'mon beautiful, I didn't hurt ya that bad, did I?..." Then, more sullenly, "I 'ope you realise this was your own fault. It didn't have to be so fucking difficult. I didn't want to have to force ya, but you didn't leave me much choice, now, did ya? You could've saved us both a whole lot of time and hassle if you'd just paid your dues the first time around."

His accusatory tone turned her stomach, and suddenly Eva thought, _I won't let him win this war._

A blazing, euphoric wave of certainty and determination washed over her, and she snapped open her eyelids.

_He might have won the physical battle, but he's not going to win the psychological war._

In a voice which seemed to belong to someone else, someone cool and bored and entirely indifferent, she said in a blasé voice, "You know, what, Scabior? The ladies at the Ministry used to go on and on about what a Casanova they thought you were, like you must be this amazing, incredible lover... but actually, _that_ was quite a disappointment."

Her heart thudded with a surge of adrenaline at the confounded silence that met her speech. She could almost feel the electric surge of his rekindled wrath. When he finally spoke his voice was dangerously impassive. "Is that right."

"Yes, that's right," she continued, almost high on the dizzying sense of returning power. She sat up, forcing herself not to wince with the pain which wracked her body. She met his gaze unflinchingly, an expression of utter contempt on her face. "I don't know exactly what I was expecting, it being my first time and all... but let's just say it was... something_ better _than that." She shrugged. "But I guess I'll just have to wait for somebody else... somebody _more competent_."

His eyes were smouldering with ire. "Want another round, do ya' sweet-'eart?" he growled warningly. "Cos I'm more than willing, if you're up for it."

"No thanks," she said sweetly, gibingly. "One disappointment is quite enough."

The tension in his body was palpable. His victorious indolence had gone, and he was battling for a way to regain the upper hand. She wondered if he would strike her, or curse her, or if he would attack her again. She didn't care. He'd already done his worst, and she knew that it wasn't going to break her.

He reached for another cigarette, as if unsure himself how he was going to proceed.

Eva nonchalantly began to pull her ripped clothes into some semblance of order, ignoring the pain, ignoring the dark stripes of blood on her inner thighs. As she reached for her jeans her hand brushed something hard and slim.

It was Scabior's wand.

Quickly, silently, her left hand curled around it's length, holding it in her fist, like a dagger.

She had no time to think, she could only act.

With one impossibly quick, violent motion – channelling all her wretchedness and revulsion, the trauma of her terror and pain, her unendurably bitter heartbreak, her hatred of her attacker, of herself, of the whole world – she rolled over and stabbed the wand as hard as she could into Scabior's left hand. It pierced his flesh and tendons like a stake, penetrating right through to the soft wooden floorboards below.

His body jolted with shock and pain, and for a moment he wordlessly stared at his impaled hand in ashen-faced disbelief. He tried to wrench the wand free, then muttered a releasing spell – but it was stuck fast, as if the sheer violence of her emotions, coupled with the sheer violence of the act itself, had somehow usurped the wand's allegiance – as if it were doing _her_ bidding now.

Eva scrambled to her feet. "Now you've got something to remember _me_ by!" she cried wildly, triumphantly throwing his words back in his face. "Every time you _fuck_ another girl you can just think about ME!" She was jubilant, exhilarated. Somehow she knew that no amount of magic would completely remove the scar from his flesh.

The Snatcher stared up at her, his lips white, his eyes glittering with helpless rage.

_That's right, you bastard,_ she thought, _that's what it feels like._

She grabbed her jeans and trainers and ran to the door, wrenching it open and ran out into the dusk. Laughing, crying, her body aching all over, inside and out, she staggered towards the darkness of the forest which enclosed the clearing. She didn't know where she was heading, but she wasn't going to wait around for more Snatchers to appear, or for Scabior to free himself.

Before she gained the forest edge, a figure broke out from the shadows, sprinting straight towards her. "EVA!"

She stumbled, fell forwards, but he caught her, and she sagged against him, her relief turning her body to liquid, her heart to pure air. "Vincent," she whispered.

He lowered her gently to the ground. "I'm too late, aren't I," he said, his face cloaked by shadows, but his voice full of anguish. "He raped you."

"Yes," she said softly, "but it doesn't matter."

"IS HE IN THERE? I'LL KILL HIM!"

She put her hand up to his face, gently. "No, you can't kill him. He saved my life. ...Your father -"

"_I know_." The two words were strangled, tortured, and his breathing was heavy. But then she felt him willing himself to gain control, she felt his muscles tauten and clench with the effort to swallow his rage and pain.

Now he was calm, determinedly calm, as if he needed to hear himself say the words out loud, stated rationally, factually. So he could believe them. So he could face them. " I was there. My ..._father_..." - he forced the word out - "made me watch. He concealed me and _made_ _me watch_. He told me. ... He said he was going to let Scabior rape you, and then _he. He_ was going to. To finish you off." His voice caught with a still-raw disbelief and horror. "He knew I loved you," he whispered, gathering her tightly against him, reassuring himself she were really there. "And he made me watch him cut into you. My - own - _father_."

She felt a warm splash on her face and realised they were tears – his tears, for her. She looked at him wonderingly. She hadn't imagined him capable of crying. In the lucent light of the rising moon Eva now saw that Vincent's beautiful face was marked with deep lacerations and abrasions, as if he had been in a violent duel.

Her own tears streamed freely down her face, as she smiled up at him. "Is it over?"

He leant down and very softly kissed her bruised lips. "It's over."

He gently brought her to her feet, and then helped her into her jeans, her trainers. He pulled off his jumper and slipped it over her head.

They entered into the forest hand in hand, and she did not look back once. "Let's go away for a while," Vincent said. "To America or somewhere."

"Okay," Eva replied. The inky shadows enveloped them, but she was no longer afraid. The darkness held no more terrors for her. "...But we've got to come back, you know."

"I know." He squeezed her hand. "We've got a war to fight."

**FINI.**

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_**Thanks for reading everyone!**... Phew, that was intense. Thanks to my reviewers and concritters, your encouragement was invaluable. I'm in the process of writing and uploading another story now called Belonging To The Fog, so follow me if you liked what you read here. Any suggestions for future stories will also be happily considered. **Pretty please leave a review, hint hint hint! ;)**_


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